The Wisdom of Rats
by Amicitia Revenant
Summary: Splinter never expected to be a father of such strange children. When one of them turns out to need more than he can give, a difficult decision has to be made. The consequences will haunt him and his family for years, calling into question what it means to be a good parent. First in a trilogy.
1. Chapter 1

"And after some more talk we agreed that the wisdom of rats had been grossly overrated, being in fact no greater than that of men."

~Joseph Conrad, "Youth"

* * *

 _1988_

It had been a long time since Splinter had needed to forage for himself.

Of course, it did not take a great deal of skill for a rat to forage successfully in this paved paradise. New York City was very different from rural Japan, but Splinter quickly learned to search the sidewalks and trash cans for discarded morsels.

In the early days, he also tried to beg food from humans. It seemed that humans like his Master Yoshi were few and far between, though; his efforts were only ever met with stomping feet and hurled objects.

Nor did the other rats accept his company. Perhaps he was too domesticated. Perhaps his torn ear made him appear weak, a liability to any colony he tried to join. Either way, he found himself perpetually alone. It was springtime, and his hormones drove him to seek a mate, but no female would allow him to approach.

Perhaps it was this combination - of being well-fed but lonely - that caused him to do what he did.

* * *

It was late spring, or early summer. Many years later, thinking back on that pivotal event, he would conclude it must have been June. He was in strange underground passages that he had discovered. They were far too large to be the burrow of any creature, and they ran with stinking water, but they were safe, and the barred grilles in the ceiling reminded him vaguely of his cage in his Master Yoshi's home.

The place was a cacophony of foul smells. To get a little fresh air, and to get away from the damp, he had climbed up metal pipes until he was crouched in a sliver of sunlight just below one of the grilles. He was dozing there, when sudden noises – not necessarily _louder_ than those that humans constantly made in this busy place, but _different_ – snapped him into wakefulness.

He peered up through the grate, trying to match the scene before him with the sounds to which he had grown accustomed these past few months. A large vehicle had just screeched to a halt, sitting angled across the street, whereas normally the huge machines moved in carefully parallel rows. A crowd of people was standing near the oddly-placed vehicle, shouting. At the edge of the crowd, a young boy was staring straight at Splinter, an expression of horror on his face.

But no – it was not Splinter that horrified him. It was not Splinter he was looking at. It was several small objects that a moment later plummeted past Splinter, splashing him with water as they skidded by – objects that a moment ago, the boy had been holding.

Startled by the water, fearful of the boy's gaze, Splinter turned and leapt down from the pipes. Behind him, something else fell, hitting the ground with a sharp crash.

He probably should have run, but something about the boy's concern for the fate of the objects caused him to pause and turn around, to try to see what they were. He was startled again to see that the water below the grate was glowing bright green, and in the next breath he caught a strange, new smell emanating from the shiny patch.

Cautiously, against his better judgment, Splinter moved closer. Yes, the strange objects were in the green water – and so was a scatter of broken glass, and a substance he had never encountered before.

He crawled closer again, and saw that the objects were not objects – they were _creatures_ , small animals, moving slowly after their sudden fall. They were roughly the size and shape of a young rat, but encased in tough armor.

Splinter had encountered such creatures, long ago. Normally found near clean water, they were easy to catch but difficult to eat.

He took another few steps. The creatures did not appear to have been hurt by the fall, and seemed to have no fear of him. One even turned to regard him curiously. For a moment, he met its gaze.

And that was when he knew: he was not going to abandon them.

Instead, in a strange and clumsy parody of what Tang Shen had done for him, he gathered the creatures into a confined space. He brought them food. He found it endearing, rather than disgusting, when one of the creatures gave a surprisingly vigorous shake, spattering him with the strange green liquid.

He fell asleep with them that night, and in the morning, everything was different.

* * *

Splinter awoke to find a long, thick tail curled in front of his eyes.

His first thought was that a cat must have crept up on him while he slept. His first action was to attack. But the tail moved when he did, hurt when he bit it. Alarmed by these unexpected results, he tried to retreat into a crevice to take stock of the situation, only to discover that he could not fit in the narrow space.

He froze, terrified. He listened and could not hear any movement, though this did not mean a predator was not waiting to strike.

Long moments passed. Finally, he risked a look over his shoulder, peering down the dark tunnel.

Nothing was there.

He looked down, and at first could not make sense of what he was seeing. Slowly, the image resolved: the tail belonged to him. His body was much larger than it had been yesterday, and his toes were bizarrely distended.

He was starving.

He looked at the small creatures. They made no noise, but judging from their appearance and behavior, they were in similar straits.

Splinter sat back on his haunches and tried to solve this problem. He could not imagine what had happened. One thing he knew for sure was that food was more important than companionship at the moment, and he considered eating the armored animals.

This was an appealing idea. It would save him from needing to go out and forage, as well as eliminating the issue of what the green creatures themselves would eat.

Creeping forward on lengthened appendages, he sniffed at the nearest of the creatures. Almost immediately, he drew back. It had the stink of the green liquid on it. As a rat he could consume nearly anything without consequence, but instinct told him he should not try to eat _this_.

It took him many hours to gather his courage, but eventually, driven by hunger, he went out.

* * *

He was not the only one afraid of his new body. Humans shrieked at the merest glimpse of him. Rats turned and ran at his approach. Even a cat fled when they unexpectedly encountered each other.

This was an advantage. So was his newfound ability to lift the lids of garbage cans. Though it took more food to fill his belly, he also could carry more back to his den, to feed to the water creatures and store for later.

His companions fell upon what he brought them, thrusting their heads at it and tearing off chunks with their beaks. When everything was gone, they stopped moving, and fell asleep where they were.

* * *

The next day, he knew what they were called. _Kame._ Turtles.

They had grown again, and by comparing to an old tin can lying some way down the tunnel, he determined that he had as well.

Aside from that brief foray in search of a reference point, he did not go out. Instead, in between trying to sleep off a strange fatigue, he observed the turtles.

They were not active like rats, preferring to remain still most of the time. They especially liked to remain still in the patch of sunlight streaming down from the grille above their hiding place. Splinter sensed that they were young, though he could not determine whether they were male or female. Anyway, it made little difference to him.

Nor did he care that he could not distinguish one from another. It was difficult for him even to comprehend exactly how many there were.

After dark, he made one more excursion. Returning to the place where the turtles had fallen, he gathered up all the fragments of glass from the object that had come after them, and brought them back to his den.

He did not know why he did this, only that it seemed very important.

* * *

The days after that were a blur of changes, of which Splinter would later remember almost nothing. He must have foraged, for he did not starve, but afterwards he had no recollection of where he had gone or whom he had encountered.

Sometime during this period, he learned three things.

First, it was no longer comfortable or efficient for him to walk on all fours. From now on, he would need to go about on his hind legs, as humans did.

Second, by prodding the turtles into a line and looking carefully at each one in turn, he was able to determine that there were four of them. The scent of the green liquid still lingered, but beneath it he could detect the distinct individual scent of each animal. He memorized these scents, and it was by this token that he would know his four small companions.

Third, there were tokens in his mind of a completely different type. In the past, objects in his environment had always been matched to images or smells in his memory. Now, suddenly, things were associated with sounds: the complex and intricate sounds made by Master Yoshi and his family. Just as the turtles were _kame_ , he himself was _nezumi_ , and the undrinkable water near his home was _mizu_. These tokens themselves, he suddenly knew one day, were _kotoba_ : words.

It was to them that most of his thoughts and time would be devoted as he came to grips with his new life.

* * *

The turtles were not well.

Ill rats tended to become lethargic and disinclined to move. Turtles were like that all the time, so it was not easy for Splinter to tell that his companions were sick. But, he did not imagine it was normal for healthy turtles to vomit their food.

Each day, he went out. He brought back food, and nesting materials, and new words. He repeated the words to himself, in his mind, as he watched the turtles eat. Then he arranged the materials - _bedsheets, newspapers, feathers_ \- and watched the turtles rest. And then he watched the turtles vomit, backing away from the partially-digested food to lie in hungry misery.

He sniffed each of them carefully, but he could not smell any disease. He did not understand why they were behaving in this way.

He began to observe humans more closely. Some carried food in bags, and he did not know where it came from. Others foraged in much the way he did, climbing into large trash cans and climbing out again with food clutched in their hands.

These humans resembled men to whom his Master Yoshi had always been particularly kind.

Watching from hidden positions, Splinter saw that these men often chose food wrapped in a type of inedible film - _plastic_. He had usually avoided such food in the past, but now he began to collect it and carry it home.

The food, once extracted from its scent-blocking wrappings, smelled very fresh. He offered it to the turtles.

They stopped vomiting.

* * *

So, he learned, turtles were not like rats. They could not tolerate spoiled food. They could not keep themselves warm on chilly nights. They did not move quickly and they were indifferent to the multitude of smells that wafted through their home.

As their health improved, Splinter began to notice that each turtle had its own unique patterns of behavior. At first, he associated each personality with the scent-token he had memorized. But, as his mind filled with words, he felt compelled to give each turtle a _name_.

One turtle always watched him alertly, as he watched it back. It was this turtle whose movements had first been identifiable as imitations of Splinter's own. The realization that he was being mimicked startled Splinter. He did not know what it might mean, but he remembered how Master Yoshi had reacted when he had first noticed his pet performing rat-ninjutsu in his cage.

The movements that Splinter had made, the movements he saw his master practicing every day, were called _renshuu_. This was the name that he gave to the first turtle.

The second turtle reminded him less of Yoshi than of his master's brother, Mashimi. " _Okorippoi!_ " the Dai-Sensei often exclaimed, when Mashimi had acted out of anger or impetuousness. Splinter thought of this frustrated cry frequently, when he observed the behavior of the largest turtle. This one snapped at the others, stole their food, and stubbornly refused to approach its furry caretaker, even on the coldest nights. _Okorippoi_ would be a fitting name for it.

The third turtle was the most active. Rather than quietly watching, it crawled to Splinter at every opportunity. It seemed to enjoy when Splinter ran a finger over its head and down its shell, as his Master Yoshi had done for him. It especially loved to seize any food within reach, closing its eyes and chomping down with apparent delight. Splinter named this one _Miso_ , after a food that his family had often eaten together.

The fourth turtle was a mystery to Splinter. Even after he learned to provide fresh food to his companions, this one remained sickly and weak. It fouled the nest often, rarely moved, and would not interact with the others. Splinter did not know what was wrong with it, though he thought it must be in pain. He named it _Gekkei Keiren_ \- a phrase Tang Shen had murmured sometimes, when she placed a hand on her stomach and smelled of female hormones.

He did not know what to call them collectively. Perhaps the best word was _kazoku_.

A family.


	2. Chapter 2

Perhaps he was imagining it. Perhaps, shunned by rats and humans alike, out of his mind with loneliness, he was ascribing traits to the turtles that they did not possess.

Perhaps whatever had happened to his mind and body had scrambled his perceptions as well, causing him to see things that were not there at all.

Nevertheless, he had become convinced of several things. First, he believed that all of the turtles were male, like himself. Second, he believed that they deserved to be cared for. And third, he believed that they cared for him in turn.

Surely they stayed with him because they chose to, not because they were slow-moving and helpless. Surely Miso burrowed under his body at night because he loved and trusted him. Surely Renshuu's imitations were a sign of the turtle's esteem for Splinter.

Even Okorippoi seemed to care, in his stand-offish way, whether or not Splinter came back from his excursions.

As he grew more and more attached to the turtles, Splinter became increasingly distressed by Gekkei Keiren's persistent illness. The thought no longer crossed his mind that a dead baby turtle would make excellent food for his ravenous new body.

But nothing that he did seemed to help. He offered the smallest turtle the freshest food and the cleanest water. He nudged it - _him_ \- into the sunniest spot during the day, and the warmest spot against his body at night.

Gekkei Keiren remained sick.

Finally, in desperation, Splinter began to speak.

* * *

As summer turned into fall, Splinter learned many things about minds.

He learned that minds, like bodies, could be sick. This was a common affliction among the _homeless_ – another new word he had learned, meaning "the men who took food from trash cans" - and Splinter had observed that those who did not suffer in this way kept a careful distance from those who did.

He learned that minds could be easily fooled. If he covered himself with a large piece of fabric - hanging low over his arms and legs, and pulled up over his head - and imitated the mannerisms of the mentally ill, no one seemed to notice that he was an unusually large and intelligent rat. This enabled him to hide in plain sight, and listen to the homeless speaking to one another.

He could not understand what they said, for the words were very different from those used by his Master Yoshi. But he learned that minds could be influenced by the speaking of others. By saying words aloud, the homeless people were able to work together, resolve conflicts, and otherwise improve their lives.

He tried this on the turtles. They did not answer him, but they attended closely. When he offered them words, they approached him almost as eagerly as when he held out a piece of food. As he spoke, and watched them listen, he wondered whether his young charges' minds were nourished by his speech any more than their thin bodies profited from his scavengings.

He learned that minds could become tired. Speaking was difficult - physically, semantically, mentally. To think of the word, find the right meaning, make his changed-but-still-not-human mouth form the sounds… it was exhausting, and it wasted precious energy. If he wanted to live, he had to ration his words almost as vigilantly as he rationed food.

Finally, he learned that minds could grow. All that he had discovered would have been far beyond his comprehension before the mysterious changes that had taken place. His ability to understand, and to reason, was as much increased as his size and strength. And so, just as he had turned his new physical skills to the task of obtaining enough food to feed his family, he now turned his mental abilities to the problem of Gekkei Keiren's health.

* * *

He reasoned thusly: Gekkei Keiren was going to die.

Despite his best efforts, he had observed nothing in his travels around New York that told him what to do for a sickly baby turtle. He had long since exhausted every way he could think of to help the struggling creature, and still Gekkei Keiren grew sicker day by day.

This was not acceptable.

From these two premises, Splinter reasoned that he ought to try any strategy that might have the smallest chance of saving his companion's life.

During his nightly forays, he _had_ found one thing of interest: a place where sick animals went in and healthy animals came out. This had been so striking to him that he risked hiding nearby during daylight, to learn more.

Humans went in, with smaller animals. Later, they came out again, with the same animals.

One human, alarmingly, came out alone.

On the day that he witnessed this, Splinter waited until nightfall before approaching the building. He did not dare to enter, but by sniffing carefully at the place where air came out, he determined that the lone human's animal was still inside - alive, but very sick.

Over the next few nights, he visited again. Each night, the animal he was tracking smelled healthier.

And then, one night, it was gone.

Splinter sat back on his haunches to ponder this.

He had not pondered long before his ear twitched at a strange sound: a whining noise coming from the other side of the building. Though it did not seem dangerous, Splinter approached cautiously.

An elderly dog was sitting near the back door of the building, tied to a nearby fence by means of a sort of rope around its neck.

Splinter thought for a moment, and decided to forego a night's foraging to observe the fate of this dog.

* * *

He had to change his hiding place several times before anything happened. Finally, just after sunrise, the door opened.

It was a woman who emerged. Splinter could not understand the soft words she spoke, but as she leaned down to touch the dog, her movements reminded him so strongly of Tang Shen that he almost went to her before he knew what he was doing.

He ducked back into hiding, and when he peeked out again, the door was closing behind the dog's wagging tail.

Splinter went home, deeply unsettled by the idea that was forming in his mind.

* * *

It was what happened later that day that cemented his resolve. The turtles were lethargic, owing to the lack of food. But it was Gekkei Keiren, usually the slowest of all, who suddenly began to shake.

Drool ran from his mouth, and he did not respond when Splinter called his name. Within minutes, he ceased to move or respond at all.

At that moment, Splinter feared the turtle was already dead. He held him close, and waited for nightfall.

* * *

He did not have a rope with which to tie Gekkei Keiren to a fence, but he doubted that the turtle would go far before morning. He worried more that the small reptile would freeze to death.

Both of these problems were solved by what he found outside the back door of the building where sick animals were cured: a box of crying, squirming kittens.

Without hesitation, Splinter placed Gekkei Keiren in the box. The kittens would keep him warm, and the box would hold him still until the woman came.

He knelt over the box for some time, thinking. He breathed in the scent of the small turtle, and ran a claw over the strange pale markings that, in the past months, he had noticed differentiated Gekkei Keiren from the others.

It had to be this way. For Gekkei Keiren, so close to death, he would take this risk. For the others, he could not trust the woman, when so few humans had ever shown him any kindness. He could not even take the chance of ever coming back to check on his small companion's progress. He would never see the fourth turtle again.

As he folded over the flaps of the box, he whispered, "Goodbye, my son."

It was the first time he had ever used that word.


	3. Chapter 3

Emma Lamb loved mornings.

New York City was never quiet, but there was a kind of calmness in the hour around dawn that she wouldn't miss for the world. She would never sleep in, even if her job didn't demand that she rise early.

She loved her job. She had been a fully-licensed veterinarian for nine years now, and there wasn't a day that she regretted her career choice.

She loved her apartment. Cozy but minimalist, it was always filled with the background noise of the animals in the kennel room downstairs. It was also frequently filled with friends, but Emma always sent them home at the end of the evening. She lived alone, and she liked it that way.

She loved her commute. It was exactly fourteen steps downstairs to her office, a cramped but scrupulously clean space whose rent she worked her ass off to afford. Between that and lingering student loans, she wasn't nearly as rich as some of her clients seemed to think, grumbling under their breath as they wrote out checks.

The kennel room in the back of the clinic was always her first stop. She didn't board animals, but the two cages along the back wall were usually occupied by dogs or cats recovering from surgery and miscellaneous illnesses. Emma greeted today's inpatients by name, refilling their food and water dishes with one hand while checking their condition with the other. No movement was ever wasted.

Then, the other side of the room. "Good morning, Sasha," she said, in the tone she might use for a friend: warm, familiar, without the babying cadences some people used in such situations.

Sasha had no particular response to the greeting. This was first because she was a dog, and second because she was not used to the name. She had only acquired it yesterday, when she appeared outside the back door of the clinic without papers or tags. She was old, but seemed in good health and well-socialized. Later, Emma would have to call the shelter uptown to retrieve the dog and try to find her a new home.

The next stop was that same back door. Emma stepped out into the cool fall air, drawing a deep breath.

And then she saw that it was a kitten dump morning.

She _hated_ kitten dump mornings.

She knew it was a kitten dump because the box was meowing. This at least meant that the kittens were alive and relatively well, which was better than some of the alternatives.

She picked up the box and carried it back inside.

It turned out to contain seven kittens - alert, wriggling, not obviously sick or maltreated. Emma estimated that they were about five weeks old. It took her about an hour to check over the kittens, corral them into a cage, and document their arrival. That done, she moved the cardboard box out of the way so she could clean the exam table.

There was something wrong about the _thump_ the box made as she set it on the counter. Folding the flap down, she peered inside.

Lying in the bottom of the box was a turtle.

Emma swore under her breath. Partly at herself - how could she have missed this? - and partly at the dumper. She wasn't a reptile vet. She could never shake the perception that reptiles, so motionless much of the time, were lazy, and laziness was one thing she could not stand.

She washed her hands, wiped down the table, and then took the turtle out of the box. It lay on the table as though it hadn't even noticed its change in surroundings.

Emma picked up the wall phone with its long cord, dialed a familiar number, and tucked the receiver against her shoulder.

"Beardsley Zoo Reptile House, Ron Engel speaking."

"Ron, it's Emma."

"Hey, Emma. What crawled in today?"

"It's a turtle," she sighed.

A herpetologist who didn't know her might have gone straight to, "What kind?", but Ron had been fielding these calls from Emma for years. Instead, he started on a cladistic assessment.

"What kind of pattern does it have on its head?" he asked.

"Ah…" Emma bent down to peer at the small animal. "Definitely striped."

"What color?"

"Kind of pink-ish."

There was an uncharacteristic pause in the line of questioning. "Pink-ish?"

"I would say definitely pink-ish," Emma repeated.

"Well," Ron said, "sounds like you have a pastel red-eared slider. Those are unusual."

"Lucky me," Emma said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

Ron chuckled. He had always been very patient about Emma's lack of love for reptiles, though he generally considered it to be a serious character flaw. "Male or female?"

Emma flipped the turtle over. "How does this go again?"

"Males have the cloaca further out," Ron reminded her.

"I'd say it's a male, then," Emma said.

"And how does he look?"

Emma watched the upended reptile move its stubby limbs. "Even for a turtle, I'd say he's making a pretty weak attempt at flipping himself over."

"Mm." A worried noise.

"Also, is it normal for red-eared sliders to have proportionally huge heads?"

"Not really, no." A pause, then - "Get him some water and a UV lamp. See if he's doing better in a few hours."

"I will. Thanks, Ron."

"Any time."

Emma flipped the helpless turtle back onto its front, and clicked the receiver into its cradle. In short order she'd assembled a terrarium with a water dish, some food, and the old heat lamp she kept around for just such occasions. In went the turtle, and then Emma headed to the front door, to turn the sign to _Open_ and await her first appointment of the day.

* * *

Emma had a rule that no animal could remain nameless for more than twenty-four hours. Between well visits in the morning, she collected a stack of index cards and a marker from the drawer in her office, and headed into the kennel room. After a moment's thought, she named the seven kittens after players in the ongoing World Series. Then, having run out of time and inspiration, she simply wrote _Greenie_ on the last card, before taping it to the turtle's terrarium.

"Next patient is ready, Emma."

Emma turned and nodded to her veterinary assistant. Meredith was hanging in the doorway between the kennel room and the narrow hallway; just behind her was the back door of the exam room. "Pushkin, right?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Great. Later today, can you call the shelter and make arrangements for -" She glanced back at the cards hanging from the kittens' cage. "Gibson, Eckersley, Tudor, McGwire, Canseco, Baylor, Honeycutt, and Sasha?"

"Sure thing," Meredith said, and pushed off from the doorframe to head back into the exam room. Emma followed, and mostly forgot about the strays for the rest of the day.

* * *

Meredith hailed her again in the evening, as Emma was coming out of her office after finishing her charting.

"Emma," she said, "there's something strange about Greenie."

Meredith was from the country - that is, northwest New Jersey - and had experience with all kinds of animals. Emma leaned against the doorway of the kennel room, raising an eyebrow and awaiting an explanation.

"First," Meredith said, "what happened to his feet?"

"What do you mean?" Emma asked.

Meredith turned, leaning over the terrarium, inviting Emma to join her. "Turtles are supposed to have five toes all the way around," she said, pointing at the terrapin's tiny feet. "But Greenie only has three in the front and two in the back."

"You're right," Emma said.

"And there's something weird about the way he holds them," Meredith went on, making a gesture that encompassed Greenie's posture. "But mostly what I notice is the way he looks at me."

This was met with a skeptical expression from Emma.

"It's normal for animals to be curious, even reptiles." Meredith put a slight stress on the last words, knowing her employer's disdain for the cold-blooded branches of the vertebrate tree. "But - I don't know. I've never had a reptile look at me like _that_."

Emma leaned over the terrarium again. Greenie had his head tilted sideways, one eye pointed up at the women. The other, of course, was pointed towards the sand.

Or was it? Greenie's eyes, in his big head, seemed closer together than they should have been - more like a dog or cat than like a rabbit or a bird.

She drew back, unsettled. "Well," she said, "have you finished cleaning up?"

"All done," Meredith said. She dusted off her hands, a purely symbolic gesture that preceded proper sanitation. "I'll see you tomorrow, Emma."

"Good night, Meredith," Emma said, and in a moment she was alone.

But only for a moment. The back door had hardly closed when someone knocked on it. Emma turned off the lights in the kennel room as she went to greet her visitor.

"Hi, Terri," she said, when she opened the door. "Hi, Anna."

"Hi, Emma," Terri said warmly.

Anna didn't respond. Although she was human, she was only six months old, and thus in Emma's opinion was an even worse conversationalist than a dog. Terri liked children so much that she had produced three of them already, but she respected Emma's preference for small creatures with fur, and this was a large part of why the two of them had remained friends for so long.

"Come on up," Emma said, and locked the door before turning to climb the stairs to her apartment. "I'm so ready for this election cycle to be over," she said, as she followed Terri. "Can we just elect Dukakis and get it over with already?"

"If it weren't for the election cycle," Terri said, "I don't think there would be any news."

"There's always the Cold War."

"It's a _Cold_ War," Terri pointed out, as they went into the living room. "There hasn't been anything to report since… ah…"

Emma thought a moment. "The INF treaty?"

"Could be," Terri agreed. Meanwhile, she produced a box of homemade cookies from her capacious diaper bag. Emma was fairly certain that the mothers of small infants were supposed to _receive_ food from friends and extended family, but Terri was a feeder, and even childbirth could not stop her from cooking.

"If there was no news at all," Emma said, accepting the box of cookies, "that would be just fine with me. I like it when things don't change too suddenly."

The two women moved into the kitchen, and Terri changed the topic from politics to children. "Sharon got in a fight at school."

"Is that so?" Emma asked, simultaneously sticking a cookie in her mouth and filling the tea kettle.

"She won," Terri said proudly.

"Did the other kid deserve it? What kind of tea?"

"Jasmine, and the other kid started it, so I would think so."

Emma nodded, putting tea bags in mugs. "And Thomas?"

"He keeps coming home with the most beautiful art projects. I should bring them over sometime and show you."

Emma made a quarter-turn, her hip swiveling against the edge of the counter, and fixed Terri with a flat look.

"Or not," Terri said, lifting Anna from her baby carrier to cradle her in her arms. "Anyway, things are going well for Stephen."

Stephen was Terri's husband, and thus was her favorite topic of conversation after her children. He was a lawyer, specializing in the field of family law. Emma poured the tea and sat down, and the two women talked well into the evening.


	4. Chapter 4

Over the course of the next week, Sasha and the kittens left, and no new strays arrived. One routine client visit followed another, and Emma found herself more and more often thinking about Greenie.

She and Meredith had been tinkering with the terrarium, hoping to improve the little turtle's condition, but without much success. They put in a water dish big enough to paddle around in, but Greenie had no interest in swimming. They tried to tempt him with pieces of fresh fruit, but he would hardly eat. Carefully moderating the temperature in his environment similarly produced no result.

There were only two positive notes in the care log: Greenie was very partial to having his head scratched, and he watched _everything_.

Every time Emma turned around, she was startled again by the intensity with which the tiny turtle observed her movements. And yet he barely moved himself.

What he did do, copiously, was vomit and pee. At first Emma cleaned up the messes wordlessly, emulating Meredith's taciturn style, rather than engaging in one-sided conversation as she normally did. After a few days, though, she began to comment to Greenie about work, life, and the world in general.

"Do you know that it is unusually cold this month?" she asked him.

His wide-eyed expression suggested that he had not known, but that he was extremely interested to hear it. Then again, he had a similar reaction to anything that she said.

It was similar to the look of awe that came over any dog's face when its master spoke, and yet somehow it wasn't.

Emma had always toed a careful line when it came to animal intelligence: Yes, of course they were aware of their surroundings. _Of course_ they felt pain. But they couldn't comprehend that the pain they experienced at the vet's office was good for them, and beyond learning a few words of special interest ( _come, stay, dinner)_ , they did not understand human speech.

When she talked to animals, they responded to being interacted with, not to the content of her monologue.

Normally all of this was second nature to her, as she went about her work. But with Greenie, she found herself having to _remind_ herself of it, surprisingly often.

It was distracting her right now, as she tried to add up the numbers in the care book, while Greenie watched her.

Why was she doing this in the kennel room, anyway? Paperwork almost always took place in her closet-sized office. Though she was well aware that animals actively solicited human attention, long experience had left her largely immune to their come-ons.

She looked up from the book and addressed Greenie. "You are one smooth operator, you know that?"

Then, she turned away from his endlessly-intrigued expression, and took the care book to her office.

Now, about that math. Emma went through the numbers three times before she was sure: Greenie was managing to eliminate more than he took in. This was extremely bad.

Despite the late hour, she picked up the phone.

"Beardsley Zoo Reptile House, Ron Engel speaking."

"Ron, Greenie is not getting better."

A long pause. "Who is Greenie?"

"The megacephalic red-eared slider."

"Ah, of course. Good evening to you, too, Emma."

A smile crept across her face. "Listen, Ron. He can't keep any food down. He's losing water, too." Quickly, she described her and Meredith's efforts to help the turtle. "Oh, and she noticed he's missing a few toes," she concluded.

Ron was slow to answer, digesting all this information before offering his opinion. "Emma, it sounds like you have a seriously deformed turtle on your hands."

"Sure, but what can I do for him?"

Another meditative pause. "Emma, it sounds like you've gotten rather attached to Greenie."

"It may be true that I enjoy his company."

Ron, familiar with the difference between Emma's scathing comments towards things she disliked and her casual disdain towards things she was actually fond of, recognized this statement for what it was. "Emma, while I'm delighted that you finally recognize how wonderful reptiles are, I have to tell you that Greenie's prospects are not good."

Emma started to speak, mistaking a pause for the end of a comment, before Ron continued.

"Honestly," he said, "I would just euthanize it. Red-eared sliders are a dime a dozen. It's hard enough to find good homes for them when they're healthy. No one is going to want a mutant turtle."

"Even if it's a rare color morph?" Emma asked.

"Even if it's a rare color morph," Ron echoed, and Emma knew the seriousness in his voice was entirely due to the taking of an animal's life, and not at all because of the collector's value of this particular animal.

"… All right," Emma said. "Thanks for your help, Ron."

"No problem," he said, and they hung up.

* * *

Half an hour later, Emma stood in the exam room. On the table were a syringe of pentobarbital, and Greenie. He looked up at her, fearless, inquisitive.

"Of the not very many turtles that I have known," she said, "you are certainly the strangest, Greenie."

Still, the warm look in his brown eyes. His total failure to try to crawl away was so easily read as acceptance of his fate.

He had to be suffering. He was definitely starving, in the clinical sense. He spent a lot of time lying in his own excreta and often could hardly lift his huge head out of the vomit puddle.

It was the right thing to do.

Emma uncapped the syringe and brought the tip close to Greenie's left hind leg.

And bent down.

And squinted.

"Reptiles," she muttered. "They come pre-shaved and you still can't find a vein."

No, there was one. Then Greenie made the smallest movement, and she lost it in the pattern of his skin.

Impulsively, uncharacteristically, she threw the syringe into the basket on the counter. Greenie went back in his terrarium, and Emma stomped upstairs to bed.

She would give the turtle one more week.


	5. Chapter 5

"Beardsley Zoo Reptile House, Ron Engel speaking."

"Ron, give me something else I can try."

A polite pause, during which she remembered normal telephone protocol, and gave her own name and the name of the patient.

Ron didn't question why Greenie was still alive. Instead, he suggested, "If he's wasting, he probably has parasites. Try a deworming treatment." He gave her directions on where to get the correct formula for reptiles.

"Thanks, Ron," she said, and as soon as Meredith walked in the door, Emma assigned her to get the meds.

* * *

"No, Nena is not a reincarnated nun," Emma said. "I don't believe she cares at all what religious practices you follow."

"Are you sure?" the client asked. "Because she always gives me this very disapproving look when I -"

Emma listened impassively to the rest of the story, then said, "Cats always look disapproving. It's just how their faces are." Before Nena had time to protest, Emma lifted her and slid her back into the carrier. "She is a normal, healthy cat. Jeremy will help you on your way out."

"Today's lesson," she said to Meredith, after the client left the exam room. "Just when you think you've seen everything, you haven't." It was the last appointment of the day, so she could afford to leave the table unsanitized for a few minutes. This she did, instead heading into the back hallway. "Now, let's get those meds into Greenie."

As usual, the turtle's attention was on the two women as soon as they walked into the room. He watched alertly as Emma read the instructions on the bottle, then mashed a pill into some of the special, nutrition-dense food they had been feeding him. "Here you go, Greenie," Emma said, as she lowered the shallow dish into the terrarium.

Greenie eyeballed it suspiciously, which was completely normal. In these situations, watching the patient rarely helped.

"Would you go clean the exam room?" Emma asked Meredith, and while her assistant took care of that, she prepared dinner for the tiny dog occupying the cage on the other side of the kennel room.

By the time those tasks were done, Greenie had dragged himself two inches away from the untouched food.

"All right, then," Emma said. "Meredith, would you like to feed him?"

Without a word, Meredith scooped up the little turtle, balancing him on her forearm, his big head resting on the inside of her wrist. Then she dipped the index finger of her other hand into the food, and brought it to Greenie's beak.

This was a met with a sudden, strange burst of thrashing. Greenie stretched his neck to the side and paddled with his limbs, almost flipping himself off his perch. Emma reached reflexively to steady him, but when he was secure again, Meredith didn't make another attempt at feeding him. Instead, she said, "I'm going to try something."

And then she turned the turtle over, cradling his shell in the crook of her elbow, as though he were a baby.

"Even I know that's not how you hold a turtle," Emma said.

"I know," Meredith said. "But look."

Greenie had settled immediately, looking up at Meredith with a peaceful expression. When she offered him her finger again, he licked it and pulled it into his mouth, almost in a suckling motion.

"Today's lesson," Meredith said quietly, as the food disappeared steadily down Greenie's throat. "Just when you think you've seen everything, you haven't."

"Watch it," Emma said, but she was too charmed by the scene to seriously take the young vet tech to task.

* * *

And yet Greenie didn't get better.

The unconventional feeding method was repeated twice a day, and the parasite load in Greenie's stool steadily decreased. But he still remained lethargic and prone to abnormal bowel movements.

Ron's next suggestion was to do a blood test, and so when Meredith arrived on a frigid mid-November morning, Emma had a blood draw kit waiting for her next to Greenie's terrarium.

"Today," Emma said, "we are going to learn to do venipuncture on reptiles."

Meredith leaned on the edge of the counter. "You mean, I am going to figure out how to do venipuncture on reptiles, and you are going to watch and pretend you knew that all along."

"You know," Emma said, "with that kind of insubordinate attitude, you are going to have difficulty securing future positions."

"Maybe," Meredith said, picking up the needle, "but at least I'll know how to do venipuncture on reptiles."

Rolling her eyes, Emma lifted Greenie into the feeding posture, keeping him calm while stretching out one hind leg and holding it still. Though she avoided admitting it later, she was impressed by the way Meredith located a vein, inserted the needle, and obtained the sample.

The turtle seemed vaguely surprised to receive a poke in the leg instead of medicine-laced mush, but when he was returned to his terrarium, he resumed his motionless pose. The blood sample was packed away to be analyzed later, and then it was time for a six-month-old beagle to receive its booster shots.

* * *

The test results showed anemia. The treatment plan was to call Ron.

"If I were you," said the herpetologist, after Emma gave him the update on Greenie's progress, "I would send the sample to a lab. I bet there's more going on than you can see with your office equipment."

He gave her an address, and the sample was in the mail that evening.

* * *

"Read me that number again," Ron said. It was the Monday after Thanksgiving, and the test results had just come back from the lab.

Emma repeated the number printed on the sheet.

"That's impossible," Ron said. "Hold on, Emma, I'm going to call the lab."

45 minutes later he called back. "They didn't believe it either," he reported. "They say they ran the test three times. Emma, you have the most severely diabetic turtle they've ever seen."

Before Emma could get her head around the idea that turtles could be diabetic at all, Ron went on, "It's amazing he's still alive. If you want to keep him that way, you need to start him on insulin, stat."

"You're the best, Ron," Emma said, and went to apologize profusely to the client she had run out on in order to take the call.

* * *

By the end of the week, Greenie was scrambling around his tank whenever Emma or Meredith approached with the food dish - and when they approached empty-handed, and most of the rest of the time too. He ate greedily on his own, kept it all down, and didn't soil nearly as much. He even began to take an interest in swimming.

It had taken almost two months, but Emma was finally sure the turtle was going to be all right.

* * *

It was a quiet evening in the office. Business was slow; clients didn't like to schedule appointments in the hectic weeks before the holidays. Emma had sent Meredith and Jeremy home early, and was using the free time to balance her books.

Or try to. She was barely in the black. Rent was phenomenally expensive, she was already making do with a bare-bones staff, and she couldn't raise her fees. She needed to find a way to get more patients into the clinic.

"You could go back for a certification in reptiles," she muttered to herself.

Or not. Greenie needed injections of insulin multiple times a day, and while Emma could now successfully administer them, she had to acknowledge she wasn't as good as Meredith.

She reviewed another unpaid bill. "You've got to increase your revenue stream, Emma," she sighed.

"Em-ma."

… That was weird. Probably the cat in the other room had sneezed funny.

"Em-ma."

No. That was a _voice_. Someone was saying her name.

She got up from her desk, and moved to the doorway.

"Meredith?" No answer. She took another step into the hall. "Terri?"

There was no response, not even a feline sniffle. Emma moved along the hall, peered left into the exam room, then turned right into the kennel room. She was intending to open the back door, to check that all was quiet in the alley.

As she flicked on the light -

"Em-ma?"

The cat was asleep, her breath wheezing through her congested sinuses. But Greenie was awake, lifting himself up on his forelimbs, looking straight at her. His beak opened in a reptilian grin.

"Em-ma!"

For a moment, all brain function stopped. Then Emma stumbled back to her desk, picked up the phone, and dialed a familiar number with frozen fingers.

"You have reached the Beardsley Zoo Reptile House. Please leave a -"

"Damn it, Ron." The words stuck in her throat as she tore open her address book and dialed a different number.

"Hello?" said a woman's pleasant voice.

"Helen, wherever Ron is, tell him he needs to be in New York _right now._ "


	6. Chapter 6

Emma had never been afraid to go in the kennel room before, but the next morning she found herself standing in her own waiting room, until Ron arrived. It had snowed a couple of inches overnight, but he had driven down from Connecticut anyway, and was now waving at her through the glass front door.

"Has Greenie gotten worse?" he asked, as Emma unlocked the door to let him in, along with a gust of cold air.

"I don't know if I would say _worse_ ," Emma replied. "But definitely _weirder_."

Ron had been to her office before, but not often and not recently. She gestured him into the side hall, which went around the exam room to lead to the kennel.

The cat rubbed against the bars of her cage, but Emma was only interested in the terrarium. Greenie was lying inside it, asleep, his limbs tucked up close to his body.

"Well, let's have a look," Ron said, and brushed a finger over Greenie's shell.

The little turtle popped awake instantly, lifting his head to blink up at his visitors. His inquisitiveness never ceased to be mesmerizing, but as he focused his eyes Emma watched Ron instead, gauging his reaction.

There was definite surprise, and when Emma looked back down, the feeling seemed to be mutual. "Look," she said. "He knows you're a new person."

"Well, let's see if we can be friends," Ron said, and lifting Greenie out of the terrarium, he carried him into the exam room.

Greenie patiently tolerated Ron's poking and prodding, while Emma somewhat less patiently listened to her friend hum and mumble through the examination.

"Emma," he said when he was finished, "you have an extraordinarily defective turtle. In addition to being megacephalic, oligodactyl, and diabetic, he also has serious joint problems and maxillofacial deformities."

"Plus he talks," Emma said.

Ron looked at her quizzically, politely, resting his hands lightly on Greenie, who was making a spirited though uncoordinated attempt to crawl towards the edge of the table.

"Last night," she went on. "He said my name. I'm sure of it."

"Emma," Ron said gently, "that's impossible."

"That's what you said about his glucose numbers."

"Well, yes, but _speech_ is a different order of impossible."

Emma held his gaze for a moment, then turned her attention to the turtle. "Hey, Greenie. Good morning. How are you today?"

The little reptile looked at her alertly. After a few seconds he opened and closed his beak, but no sound came out.

"He expects breakfast," Emma explained, as though the herpetologist couldn't guess the meaning of this gesture. "Can you talk for us, Greenie? Say 'Emma'."

The turtle lunged forward.

"Okay." Emma put her hands on the tabletop. "Ron, clear your schedule. This is what we're doing today."

* * *

A few phone calls later, Ron's colleague had agreed to cover his duties, Emma's only appointment that day had been rescheduled, and Meredith and Jeremy had been given the day off. The cat in the kennel was taken care of, and Greenie's breakfast was ready to be served.

"How did you ever mistake him for a normal turtle?" Ron asked, as he watched Emma hold Greenie like a human infant.

"Because he wasn't acting like this until a couple of days ago," Emma explained, as Greenie licked her finger. He didn't need to be fed this way anymore, but it seemed like a more promising way to get him to speak. "Before that, turtle posture, turtle behavior, turtle silence."

"Still turtle silence," Ron observed.

"Just wait."

* * *

For the rest of the day, both veterinarians tried every trick they knew to get animals to display desired behaviors. Greenie seemed delighted by all the attention, but remained resolutely mute.

"Emma," Ron said, while they were taking a break to think of more strategies to try, "I have to tell you, I don't think Greenie is a normal turtle."

"Yes, Ron," Emma said, "we've already established that."

"No," he said, "I mean I don't think he's a _natural_ turtle. I don't think that number of congenital defects could arise without some kind of meddling."

Emma raised an eyebrow.

"People are starting to -" Ron paused, thinking. "The field of genetics is reaching an exciting point. We're beginning to be able to design organisms. Ethical quandaries abound, of course, and it's an open secret that some scientists are beginning to conduct experiments of dubious morality." He watched Greenie crawl around the floor. It was becoming increasingly obvious that the turtle wasn't pushing himself along with his hind feet, but was crawling on his knees, in the distinctive posture of a human baby. "Red-eared sliders are common, cheap, easy to keep in captivity. As reptiles, they lack those pesky sex chromosomes. It's conceivable that someone is doing experiments on them, and that Greenie is one of their failures."

Emma looked at him skeptically. "You think someone genetically engineered a turtle to speak?"

" _That_ , I haven't yet seen evidence for."

Emma reached out to scratch Greenie under his chin. "And he got dumped outside my office with a box of kittens because …?"

"Good question," Ron said, and, like the turtle, they fell silent.

* * *

In the mid-afternoon, they put Greenie back in his terrarium and went upstairs to find some lunch.

"Another up-and-coming field," Ron said, as Emma brought plates of sandwiches to the table. "Computer software. Are you still doing your accounting and scheduling on paper, Emma?"

"A calculator and a calendar are all I need," Emma replied.

"The zoo installed a new program called Excel," Ron went on anyway. "It's saving me a lot of time."

"That's because you have a team of computer people doing all the things that take _more_ time than when you were using paper."

"No, no," Ron said. "It's a Windows-based program for PC. Anyone can install it and run it."

"Ron." Emma gave her friend a pitying look. "What you just said is not English."

"I'm telling you, Emma," Ron said. "Personal computers are the future. Sooner or later you're going to have to upgrade. If you get in now -"

But Emma wasn't listening. "Shh, shh, shh." She dropped her sandwich and waved at Ron to stop talking.

He looked at her, more puzzled than irritated, trying to figure out why she had shushed him.

Emma could tell the second that he heard it - a strange noise coming up through the grate. It wasn't a dog's bark or a cat's meow. Rather, it sounded like the babbling of Terri's eight-month-old daughter, Anna.

"That's him," Emma said. "Ron, that's him."

Ron lowered his sandwich halfway to the plate. "You're joking."

But Emma had already jumped up from the table, and was taking the stairs two at a time on the way down to the kennel room.

Ron was close behind her when she got there, and Greenie was lying in his terrarium, making meaningless syllables at the sickly cat on the opposite wall.

The herpetologist approached slowly, and the turtle turned towards him, the stream of sounds trailing off.

They looked at each other.

"Kaka," said the turtle.

"Endearing," murmured Emma.

Ron rubbed the bridge of his nose for a long moment before speaking. "Well," he said, "not exactly speech, but still the most eloquent thing I've ever heard from a reptile."

"Last night he said my name," Emma said.

"So you mentioned."

"Yes, but do you believe me now?"

Another long pause. "Maybe."

* * *

By the end of the day, they had cajoled a single long "Emmmmm" out of the slider. This left Ron doubtful about Greenie's intelligence and verbal prowess, but thoroughly convinced that what they had on their hands was far from a normal turtle.

"What should I do with him?" Emma asked quietly.

Ron watched Greenie lying contentedly in his colleague's lap. "You remember Lucy?" he asked.

Emma drew a blank. "Lucy …?"

"The chimpanzee raised as a child? She died a year or so ago."

Emma nodded, remembering the incredible reports of the ape's human-like behavior.

Ron looked her in the eye. "I'd like to try the same thing with Greenie."

Emma held his gaze, as her fingers trailed over the turtle's intricately patterned shell. "How about this," she countered. " _I'll_ try the same thing with Greenie."

"Emma," Ron said, "such an experiment should be attempted by an expert in reptiles. For scientific validity, as well as for Greenie's best chance of survival, given his severe health issues."

Emma's hand stilled, curled into a protective shield. "As I recall," she said, "it was the expert in reptiles who suggested dealing with his severe health issues by euthanizing him."

Ron's eyes fell away. "Fair point." Then he looked up again. "Emma, I will ask discreetly if anyone knows of any ongoing experiments that could have created Greenie. But other than that… let's not tell anyone about this just yet."

"I'm going to tell one person," Emma replied.

* * *

It was 7:00 PM. Terri was nursing Anna with one hand, juggling pans on the stove with the other hand, and listening to Emma's story with both ears.

"I need your help," Emma concluded. "I don't know how to raise children."

"Oh, don't worry," Terri said. "Children are easy." Anna made a funny noise, and Terri hoisted the baby onto her shoulder to burp her.

"But he's a turtle," Emma said, after observing Terri's practiced caretaking. "He doesn't nurse and I don't know if I can burp him through the shell."

"Well, what have you been feeding him so far?"

"Critical Care."

Terri didn't answer, which was her way of asking for clarification.

"Special food for very sick animals."

"Then keep feeding him that," Terri said, with impeccable logic.

"I don't have any baby equipment," Emma said.

Terri laughed, brightly, as she flipped the food onto two plates. "Do you mean a crib and a high chair?"

"And - everything." Emma shifted Greenie to one arm, gesturing to the diaper bag and the baby carrier and everything else that seemed perpetually trapped in Terri's personal orbit. "I can't afford all of that, Terri."

"Not a problem." Terri tucked Anna back into the carrier, and brought the plates to the table. "I have some friends who swear they are done having babies. They will be happy to give their hand-me-downs to a new mom."

Emma startled. "A - new - ?"

Terri smiled, offering her glass for a toast. "Merry Christmas, Emma. And Merry Christmas…"

Emma realized she hadn't mentioned the turtle's name in her story. "Greenie."

"Honey," Terri said, "he's going to need a new name."

* * *

The final weeks of the year went by in a blur. Emma mailed her Christmas cards, leaving out any mention of the fact that she was now raising a very strange turtle as a human child. A truckload of baby things arrived at her door, and she moved Greenie from his terrarium to a hastily-assembled nursery upstairs. She mourned the loss of her study only briefly; she had too many other things to worry about.

Three days before New Year's, Ron called her.

"No one has heard that anyone is trying to splice human DNA into red-eared sliders," he reported. "I don't know where he came from, Emma."

Two days before New Year's, she summoned Meredith and Jeremy into her office.

"Yes, the clinic is struggling," she said, when she saw the looks of trepidation on their faces, "but no, you're not fired." She recounted the story of Greenie, and what she and Ron had discovered about him. Meredith looked startled; Jeremy, who had barely met Greenie, merely looked surprised.

"We're really not sure what we have," Emma concluded, "but we'd like to keep it a secret. Please don't tell anyone about what you saw."

"We won't," they both promised, and Emma had no choice but to trust them.

On New Year's Day, the clinic was closed, and it snowed heavily. Emma spent the wintry hours adding the finishing touches to the nursery, and trying to get her head around her new life.

In the afternoon, she sat in the rocking chair that some saintly woman had donated, and gave Greenie his insulin. It had become a daily ordeal for both of them, and after Emma managed a successful injection, she held the distressed turtle close, rocking him and talking to him softly.

"I don't have any rules for _re_ naming my charges," she murmured to him. All her methods for naming were failing too. She couldn't name Greenie after a flower or a New York landmark or a constellation. He needed a name that would suit a human.

She had never thought about what she would name a baby, but she tried to think now how other people would do it.

"My favorite professor was named Thurston," she told Greenie, and he continued to whimper.

"'Michael' never goes out of style," she suggested, but Greenie only turned his head away.

She rocked, and thought. "I had a great-uncle named David," she said. "He was a very smart man. He never had children." Greenie looked at her, grimacing but quiet. "It would be nice to name someone in his honor." She bounced the little turtle in her arms. "David is a good name, isn't it? People named David do respectable things." She was quiet a moment, trying to imagine spending an uncertain number of years shouting "David!" all over her apartment. It seemed all right.

"So what do you think?" she asked the turtle. "Are you David now?"

The snow fell, and he smiled, and it was done.

* * *

Normality resumed with head-spinning swiftness. Business picked up after the holidays, and Emma spent her days seeing patients, managing her small staff, and running upstairs between appointments to take care of David. His health and strength improved steadily, and almost every evening Terri came over to give her lessons on being a mother.

Later every evening, she hand-wrote meticulous notes on David's behavior, for possible later use in a groundbreaking research paper. The turtle was too young for any real training, but Emma began to envision what she would try to teach him when he was a little older. What capacities might he turn out to have?

Ron had developed a hypothesis that genetic experimentation had enhanced David's intelligence, but played havoc with his endocrine system - hence the life-threatening diabetes. Possibly the researchers had realized what was wrong with him, and had gotten rid of him for that reason. Insulin, as Emma was becoming intimately aware, was phenomenally expensive.

Neither of them could explain, however, why David had been abandoned outside a vet's office instead of simply being destroyed. Emma floated a theory that some lab employee had smuggled him out to save his life, though Ron was skeptical - wouldn't the soft-hearted staffer have kept the turtle, and tried to care for him themselves?

One thing they agreed on was that it was not accurate to refer to him as a turtle.

They would call him a chimera. They would treat him as a human.

Neither of them had any idea where this would lead.

* * *

And outside of that tiny building on the Upper West Side, the world moved on, not realizing what was living in its midst.

It was January 20th, 1989. Emma sat on the couch, and held her son, and watched a dimwit being inaugurated.


	7. Chapter 7

_1989_

All three of his sons were alive.

By some miracle, Renshuu, Miso, and Okorippoi had all made it through the winter. They were thin and weak, but as the weather warmed, their eyes brightened, and they began to explore their world with new vigor. They eagerly ate the food that Splinter brought, and, to his astonishment, they began to regurgitate words.

This was a far happier event than when a meal made an unexpected reappearance. One of the turtles would peep out a syllable, then look around, almost as though to see where the sound came from. The others looked on in amazement, then sometimes broke into a chorus of echoes, discovering that they too could perform this feat.

Splinter had to shush them, because he could not let a passerby hear a child's voice crying "meat" or "fire" from a sewer grate, but he always quieted them by gathering them up in a warm hug, and pressing their faces to his fur.

He hoped the lesson they took from this was that they must moderate their volume, and not that he wished them to silence their speech entirely.

* * *

He found a more comfortable, more secure space, where his sons would be able to exercise their voices and their bodies freely. He moved his family there, and then he began to fill their new home with the kinds of things he had seen in his Master Yoshi's house: mattresses to sleep on, vessels to eat out of, books to look at, fabric items to wear.

He dressed his sons, but every time he turned around they were toddling at top speed across the Lair, as he had come to call it, naked and laughing.

He soon gave up on that particular endeavor.

* * *

Fire was a constant companion, the only way to provide light in their underground home. With some experimentation, Splinter also learned to cook with it, finding that in this way he could provide more and better food to his sons. They ate ravenously and grew quickly.

Their fascination with the dancing flames was a constant problem. Splinter did his best to teach them not to touch, but he feared that some day, something terrible would happen.

* * *

He taught them other things as well: how to run silently, how to stand still in a shadow, how to fall without getting hurt. These were the very rudiments of the secret arts that his Master Yoshi had practiced.

The turtles thought this was a wonderful game. Renshuu was perpetually determined to win. Miso had obvious natural talents, though Splinter could tell he would always struggle with patience and discipline. Okorippoi had a distressing tendency to respond to his own failures by crying or hitting someone.

Life, Splinter could tell, was going to be an adventure.

* * *

The young turtles tired easily. While they slept, Splinter taught himself.

After mastering cooking, he turned to the mixing of medicines. This was a kind of special cooking he had seen Tang Shen do sometimes, when Yoshi or Mashimi or the Dai-Sensei was not feeling well. The ingredients were strongly-smelling and not difficult to identify. He collected them from the world above, stored them carefully, and learned how to use them.

He learned, too, to make weapons. One of the homeless men he had observed always carried crude daggers carved from formerly-innocuous objects, and was known for using these blades to great effect against anyone he perceived to be standing in his way.

Splinter did not want to be like this man. But he had seen his Master Yoshi use a similar weapon to defend himself, and he remembered the movements his master had made with it.

He made such a weapon, and practiced with it daily.

Finally, he learned to read. This was by far the most difficult lesson. His acute senses were of no help in trying to decipher the symbols printed on the pages of the books he had scavenged. Moreover, after many nights of no progress, he realized that the books were written in English, a language he understood only poorly.

Some of the books had pictures. Splinter spent the most time with these, trying to use the images to guess the meanings of the words.

One book in particular fascinated him. Unlike the simple, brightly-colored illustrations in the other books, this one had pictures that were dark, intricate, spectacularly realistic.

Eventually, Splinter understood that some of the words in this book were the names of the humans who had created these beautiful pictures.

* * *

As Splinter's skills with language improved, he realized he had chosen poor names for his sons. He could not go on calling these bright, affectionate boys _Practice_ , _Hot-tempered_ , and _Soup_.

One night, as the children were curled up together on the mattress, Splinter opened the book of beautiful pictures and studied the names with a new kind of interest.

 _Renshuu_ , pronounced with his Japanese accent, sounded to him like _Leonardo_. That would be the name of his most attentive son.

None of the names began with an _O_ sound, but there were the _R_ and the _P_ , next to a picture of a kind-looking woman with two children, one of whom was holding a bird. Okorippoi loved his brothers and was fascinated by animals. He would be _Raphael_.

And then, Miso. _Masolino_ and _Masaccio_ were close matches for the sound of his sweetest son's name. But, these persons had few words dedicated to them in the book, and their pictures were not among Splinter's favorites. The names seemed like inauspicious ones, not good parallels for the many words and full-page illustrations the book devoted to Leonardo and Raphael.

Splinter paged through the book again, and then he saw it.

 _Michelangelo_.

It would take Splinter some time to be able to pronounce this name. It would take longer for his son to grow into it. But after spending the first year of his life being called by the name of a common food, Miso deserved the grandest name his father could give him.

* * *

In the morning, Splinter greeted his sons by their new names.

" _Ohayo_ , Leonardo. _Ohayo_ , Michelangelo. _Ohayo_ , Raphael."

The children did not seem to notice that Splinter was calling them something different than he had before, and he hoped that as they grew, they would forget that their father had ever given them such unbecoming names.


	8. Chapter 8

_1991_

"Aaiieeeeee!"

"DAVID!"

"No poke!" David shrieked. "No poke!"

She found him - it wasn't difficult - hiding under the kitchen table, and in short order had pinned him to the floor, using skills originally honed on big dogs and angry cats.

More recently, she'd been using those skills an awful lot on her son.

The idea of calling him a chimera, and treating him as an experiment, had collapsed within months. He was just too human. Emma hadn't known much about child development milestones, but every time Terri came over and plopped Anna in the crib - or later, the playpen - next to David, the two were eerie mirrors of each other. Whenever one began sitting up, or saying a recognizable word, or grasping objects with an appreciable degree of coordination, the other was sure to start doing the same, often within days.

But then, of course, there were the ways they weren't alike. David had become alarmingly sick after being moved upstairs to Emma's apartment, and after a few scary weeks of trial and error, she had discovered he was turtle in more than just appearance. He required plenty of UV light and lots of hydration. And, bizarrely enough, he was ectothermic.

Cold-blooded.

This would have been more of a problem if he ever went out into New York's wildly-variable climate, but he didn't. For more than two years now, Emma had been keeping him indoors, his existence a secret.

Well, mostly. Ron had recruited a handful of trusted colleagues to consult on David's health issues, and on Mother's Day of 1989, Emma had crumpled, and admitted to her parents that she was raising an adopted child of indeterminate species.

That had been an interesting conversation.

Her social network of confidantes, small as it was, had been amazingly supportive. The supplies Terri had been able to hustle up from her "mommy friends" were nothing short of a lifesaver: furniture, toys, and even clothes, sourced from older children whose mothers swore they were having no more babies. Shirts meant for five-year-olds fit over David's three-year-old shell, and Emma tried not to borrow trouble by speculating on how big he would eventually get.

At any rate, clothes would hardly be her biggest concern at that point. Much more pressing was the question of whether David would acquire the intellectual and emotional maturity to stop fighting her _every time he needed his blood tested_.

"Nooooo!"

It was a daily gauntlet: catch the little boy, hold him down, get a drop of blood, check the glucose numbers, and administer insulin. The other twenty-three hours and fifty minutes of the day, David was a calm, affectionate child, but during that one task he was a flailing, crying, thick-skinned _demon_.

Of course, Emma had been professionally trained to deal with exactly that kind of thing.

"There." She pulled the needle out and reached up to put it on the table, out of sight. Immediately, David stopped crying and blinked up at her quietly. "Do we really have to do that every day?"

David shook his head.

Emma raised a brow. "Really?"

David nodded. "No need poke every day."

"Nice try." Emma pulled herself up from the floor, while David sprang to his feet with the weightless ease of small children everywhere.

It was evening, after work. A slushy March snow was falling, and the city was about as quiet as it ever got. She had a dog recovering from surgery downstairs, and an abandoned elderly cat.

"Hey David," she said, and he looked up at her with that same curious gaze as when he had lain deathly ill in a terrarium. "How would you like to do something special tonight?"

"Watch TV?" David guessed. This wasn't something Emma allowed him to do often, and when she did, he had a somewhat unsettling tendency to look at the back of the set instead of the picture.

"No, not watch TV."

"Bake cookie?"

"No, not bake cookies," said Emma, whose homemaking skills had barely improved since her sudden launch into motherhood. "How would you like to go downstairs?"

"Downstairs?" David scratched his head, somewhat less disproportionately huge than it used to be.

"Where I work," Emma said. "You can see the animals."

David screwed up his face, thinking about this. He knew that his mom went downstairs to work every day, while Aunt Terri or Grandma and Grandpa or sometimes Dr. Somebody watched him. He knew that his mom worked with animals, like the ones he had seen in picture books, and that these animals were responsible for the noises that came up through the grates. But he had no memory of ever going outside of the apartment.

"Okay," he said.

Emma hoisted David up onto her shoulder. He was almost too big for this already - might have been, if she didn't get a daily workout hoisting big dogs onto the examination table. With the little boy in her arms, she headed out of the apartment and down to the office.

His eyes got big as he twisted his head this way and that to look at everything - the doorways, the office machines, even the pattern of the ceiling tiles. Nervously, he curled an arm around Emma's neck.

"Here we are," she said, as she flicked on the light in the kennel room. The dog lifted her head, with its Cone of Shame, while the cat blinked at them with rheumy eyes. "Do you know what this is?" she asked, walking over to the dog's cage and letting David peer through the bars.

"Doggie," David said, after a moment. He was a quiet child, but he learned words well, and had a habit of deploying them in sudden and surprising ways.

"That's right," Emma said, and took a step over to the cat's cage. "And what's this?"

David peered curiously at the black and white animal. "Kitty?"

"Yes, it's a kitty. Would you like to pet the kitty?"

David eyed the cat, then nodded. Putting him down, Emma unlocked the cage door and scooped out the cat. "Pet him nicely," she instructed, and let David put a hand on the cat's back.

"Hairy," David observed.

"Furry," Emma corrected. "Animals are furry."

"Why?"

"It helps them stay warm."

David silently digested this fact, while petting the kitty in the staccato way of small children. The cat tolerated this for a minute or so before becoming restless, and Emma lifted him out of David's reach and put him back in the cage.

"Mommy pets kitties at work," David said, as Emma re-latched the cage door.

"No, Mommy helps sick kitties get better." She turned to leave the room, but David startled and looked back at the cage.

"Kitty is sick?"

"Well, kitty is old," Emma said. "His family didn't want him anymore."

David looked appalled at this information. "Take kitty home."

"Our home? No, we can't take the kitty home."

"Why?"

"Because our home is too full already." At her son's frown, Emma added, "But you can come and visit the kitty again."

David perked up. "When?"

"How about this," Emma said. "Every day that you don't scream about the poke, you can come and visit the animals."

David looked at his mom, looked at the cat, and looked at his mom again. "Okay."

And so it was. After that night, there were clenched eyes and deep frowns and little whimpering noises, but never again any screaming.


	9. Chapter 9

"Vroom vroom vroom."

Splinter smiled. That was the sound of Michelangelo playing with toy cars at the far end of their small home.

"Beep beep."

And that was Leonardo. Splinter's sons had not seen or heard a car since before they could remember, but he had taught them the appropriate sounds to use when playing. He had a sense that someday it would be important for them to be familiar with the world above, to be fluent in American language and culture. It was better to teach them while they were young, while everything seemed like a game.

"Vroom vroom."

"Beep beep."

But where was Raphael? Splinter swiveled an ear, listening for the voice of his third son.

"Where this one go? Here? Not here. Where? Here. Yeah, here. Now this one. Not that one? Why not that one?"

It wasn't unusual for the children to talk to themselves while they were playing, but it was a bit odd for them to _argue_ with themselves. Splinter got up to see what was going on.

He found Raphael sitting near the fire, working on a jigsaw puzzle. All of the boys had done this puzzle many times before, but it still challenged them on each new attempt. Raphael had assembled only a few pieces so far. The rest were strewn across the floor, some not even right-side up.

"What are you doing, my son?" Splinter asked, kneeling at one side of the puzzle pieces.

"Doin' puzzle," Raphael said, without looking up.

"And who are you talking to?" Splinter asked.

Raphael rotated the piece that was in his hands. "Friend."

"A friend?" Splinter raised a brow. "Where is this friend?"

Raphael pointed to the side of the puzzle that was on his right, opposite from where Splinter was sitting.

"I do not see anyone," Splinter said.

Raphael shrugged.

Splinter was quiet as his son attempted to connect a few more pieces, obviously struggling with the task. "What is your friend like?" he asked, gently diverting his son's attention when he sensed that Raphael's frustration was reaching a boiling point.

"Nice."

"He is nice to you?"

Raphael nodded.

"What is his name?"

Raphael looked sharply to his right. "What your name?" he demanded. An intent pause, and then he turned towards Splinter. "He say he don't know."

"I see."

This was hardly the first time Splinter had been stymied by some new behavior of his sons. He felt constantly out of his depth in raising them, and yet so far he'd been able to keep them healthy and happy.

At least, for the most part. Clean water and sufficient food were still hard to come by, and his children seemed to become ill at the slightest provocation. They also tended to hit each other and then cry, though Splinter was hoping to stem that by teaching them to hit each other correctly.

As before, he would have to feel his way through this, doing the best he could and hoping it turned out all right.

Before he could say anything, though, Raphael informed him, "Wants the name book."

This was a common request from his sons. Splinter could not imagine that the boys understood his rough translations of the complex text, but they loved to look at the pictures and hear about the accomplishments of their namesakes. After that, they delighted in hearing the story of their own origin: how Splinter had come upon three baby turtles, and watched them transform into little boys, taking them as his own and giving them names from the beautiful book he had found nearby.

"He would like me to read him the name book?" Splinter asked, and Raphael nodded and climbed to his feet.

All the boys knew where the name book was: on a high shelf in Splinter's corner of their home, along with other precious things they were not allowed to touch. Raphael sat on Splinter's mattress and waited for his father to get the book down.

"Let's see if we can find a name for your friend," Splinter said, as he settled next to his son and opened the book.

"Brunelleschi was born in Tuscany in 1367," he began to read. "He is best known for -"

Raphael was shaking his head and tugging at the corner of the page.

"No?" Splinter said. "That is not your friend's name?" Raphael shook his head again, and Splinter moved to the next passage. " _The Battle of San Romano_ was painted by Uccello, a master of -"

It seemed that was not it either.

"Verrocchio was -" A headshake. "The early Renaissance master Ghirlandaio -" Also wrong. "A preeminent sculptor of the period, Donatello was -"

This time, a chubby finger jabbed at the page. "That him."

"Donatello?" Splinter looked curiously at his son. "That is your friend's name?"

Raphael nodded. "Yeah. Don'tello."

"How do you know?"

A shrug. "He says so."

Splinter didn't question this. "Just is," was a common line of reasoning among his sons, who knew all kinds of things with the certainty of small children. "How long has Donatello been here?" he asked instead.

"While."

"For a while?" Splinter glanced at the empty end of the mattress, where Donatello was presumably sitting. "Why have I not noticed him?"

"He quiet."

"He is quiet?" A nod. "And nice. What does he look like?"

"Like me," Raphael said, as though this were a stupid question.

"Well," Splinter said, "if Donatello is going to stay with us, then he must study hard and pick up his toys."

"He will," Raphael said. "He good boy."

"Very well, then," Splinter said, and rose to put the book back on its shelf. "Why don't you and Donatello play with the puzzle? We will have dinner in a little while."

Raphael nodded, and ran off to continue his play.

Splinter, for his part, stood quietly in his corner, looking at nothing. Something about the appearance of "Donatello" deeply unsettled him, but he could not put his finger on what it was.


	10. Chapter 10

_1993_

1993 had been a crazy year. Emma had had to hide the bombing of a nearby office building from her inquisitive son, then keep him warm through a historic blizzard that had knocked out the heat and power for a day.

On the other hand, there was finally a Democrat in the White House again, the country hadn't been involved in a major war since pulling out of the Gulf two years ago, and the economy was on the rise.

Closer to home, Emma's mom had been in and out of the hospital, her receptionist had quit without warning, the inquisitive son - now five years old - was in need of more formal education, and that rising economy had just forced her out of her home.

The letter had come from the landlord in July: he was converting the building to condos and upscale retail space, and Emma had two months to evacuate the premises.

A frantic whirlwind of activity had followed. The first step had been to secure new living and working space. She'd found a building two miles further uptown - a long distance, by Manhattan standards. Step two had been to notify her clients of the move, and hope they'd be willing to travel to the new location.

After that she'd needed to pack up all her belongings and office equipment and arrange for everything to be transported. And finally, she'd had to explain to David what was happening.

When she told him they'd be travelling to their new home on the subway, he reacted as though she'd said they were going to ride in a spaceship. But he was apprehensive, too, as she coached him through how he would need to behave on his first trip outside.

"Why do I never go outside?" David had asked.

Emma's heart had sunk. By this time David was familiar with the office downstairs, where he seemed to take delight in the animals and the medical equipment in equal measure. He had gotten tall enough to look out the windows of the apartment if he stood on his tippy-toes, and it had surely occurred to him that he never visited the outside world. But he had never asked about it before.

"When you play with Anna," Emma began, "have you noticed that you look different from her?"

David nodded.

"Why do you think that is?"

"She's a girl," David replied, very logically.

Emma couldn't help smiling. "That's true," she said. "But what about when you play with Thomas?" she asked, referring to Anna's older brother.

"Thomas is a big boy," David said.

Emma regarded her bright son. "Do you think you'll look like Thomas when you get bigger?"

David nodded off-handedly. He seemed to not understand how this was relevant to his original question, and he was impatient to get back on topic.

Emma, for her part, didn't know quite what to say. She wondered if this was how other parents felt when they had to break the news to their children that Santa Claus was not real.

"David," she said slowly. "You're not going to look like Thomas when you're older. You're a very special little boy, and that's why you look different from other children."

"Why am I special?" David asked.

"Well," Emma said, "you're green, and you have bones on the outside."

"But _why?_ "

This was what Ron and his colleagues - David's least-favorite babysitters - had been trying to answer for five years.

"I don't know, David," Emma had said. "I don't know."

And now it was September. A week ago, other children David's age had started kindergarten, and he had not.

Neither had Anna. After some frank conversation - Emma was not one to beat around the bush, and Terri didn't take offense at anything - Terri had agreed to homeschool the two five-year-olds, an idea she had toyed with for her older children, but had never quite committed to. They had found a program that would mail them textbooks and lesson plans, and they had decided to delay the beginning of the school year until David and Emma were settled in their new home.

Today was moving day. In the morning, David had stayed in his room until it was time for the movers to dismantle his nest of UV lamps, glucose meters, IV poles, and other critical equipment. Then Emma had shifted him to a cleared-out room downstairs, giving him a picture book and ordering him not to move.

And now - just after 2:00 PM, September 14th, 1993 - the moving truck had rumbled out of the alley, and it was time for them to go.

Though the day was warm, Emma had dressed David in long pants and shoes, and now she helped him put on a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of mittens.

"There you go," she said, as she tugged the hood up over his head. "Ready?"

David shook his head, causing the peak of the hood to whip back and forth. Emma hadn't done a very age-appropriate job of explaining why he couldn't be seen, and the conversation had resulted in recurring nightmares.

"It's okay," she said. "It will just take half an hour, and then you never have to go outside again." At least, so she hoped.

"Okay," David whispered.

Emma stood up, took her son firmly by the hand, and walked out the back door for the last time.

David, frightened either of the outside world itself or of what he imagined people would do if they saw his face, had no trouble keeping his head down. They wove through crowds of pedestrians, but this was New York, and no one spared a glance for an overdressed child.

It was only half a block to the subway station. Emma led David down the stairs, and didn't let go of his hand as she bought two tokens from the attendant.

As they waited for the train, David kept making furtive glances up and down the platform.

"Are you looking for the train?" Emma asked.

"No."

"What are you looking for?"

"I don't know," David said, and then he hid his face against her leg.

The train came in with a roar. Emma helped David over the gap, then put him in a seat, and they rode the four stops to their new neighborhood.

"Is this where we live now?" David asked, when they emerged again at street level.

"Yes, it is," Emma said. David already understood that everything important about their old home - friends, family, medicine, animals, household appliances - would be at their new home. He had felt a lot better after that conversation. His question now seemed to be mere curiosity.

"Okay," he said, and two blocks later they were there.

By the time the movers had brought everything inside, David was asleep on the floor in the room where Emma had left him. It had been a hard day for a little boy. The foreseeable future, she hoped, would be better.


	11. Chapter 11

Sometimes, Splinter felt that he said _renshuu_ to Leonardo more often now than he had when that had been the boy's name.

Michelangelo and Raphael were physically talented: they watched, they did, and they were dismissed. Leonardo, on the other hand, needed patient teaching and hours of practice.

Not that the boy seemed to mind. Leonardo loved this private time with his father more than he liked to play with his brothers. As the three children grew older and their personalities developed, it became obvious that Leonardo, ever thoughtful and meticulous, was put off by the rambunctious styles of the others. Splinter feared that Leonardo was becoming lonely.

On the other hand, the extra time put into training was paying off. Leonardo was finally mastering the basic forms, and along the way he had acquired a level of discipline that would serve him well in the future.

"Very good," Splinter said, and Leonardo beamed at him.

"What's the next one?" Leonardo asked.

"Ah." Splinter wagged a finger. "That will have to wait for tomorrow. Now, go and play."

Leonardo took all orders seriously - including orders to have fun - and it was rare for him to disobey. On this occasion, though, Splinter could see an objection forming on his son's beak.

Before Leonardo could say anything, however, one of Splinter's other sons screamed.

Splinter was across the Lair instantly.

"Didn't do it!" Raphael said, but Splinter paid him barely any attention. Michelangelo was rolling on the floor near the fire pit, holding his hands in front of him. His fingers and forearms were blistering, the skin peeling.

"What happened here?" Splinter demanded, as he knelt over his wailing son.

"Was jumpin' around and fell in the fire!" Raphael reported, wide-eyed. "Told him not to!"

The boys were not yet allowed to touch the box of medicines; Splinter would have to get it himself. "Watch him," Splinter ordered Leonardo, who had silently followed his father. "Be sure he does not touch the fire again."

As quickly as he could, he retrieved the medicine box from the high shelf above his mattress. Inside were the meager supplies he had been able to collect: clean strips of torn fabric, dried herbs, and bottles whose labels he hoped one day to understand.

He brought the box to the center of their home, and knelt again at his son's side. "Bring a bowl of cool water," he said to Leonardo, and the boy ran to do it.

It was not the first time one of his sons had gotten burned, touching the omnipresent fire out of childish curiosity, but this was by far the most serious such injury. Looking at the damage, Splinter feared that Michelangelo would be left with a permanent disability in his hands.

Raphael edged up to his shoulder. "Want to help!"

"Do not touch," Splinter said. "Please sit down."

Raphael shuffled around nervously, and only sat when Leonardo did, after handing Splinter the bowl of water. Splinter sniffed it to be sure of its origins - not from the sewer channel where he had taught the boys to relieve themselves, but from the tank where he stored water that had previously been boiled. Only when he was sure the water was clean did he encourage Michelangelo to put his hands in it.

Michelangelo cried but did as he was told. The skin of his hands peeled away, leaving a red, wrinkled layer underneath.

"Want to help!" Raphael said again. As Splinter ignored him, his fidgeting grew increasingly anxious. "Donnie say -"

"I am not interested in what Donatello says," Splinter snapped. Far from having given up his imaginary friend, Raphael - now five years old - had been passing on to his father an increasingly bizarre string of pronouncements and suggestions, allegedly stemming from the invisible Turtle.

Letting Michelangelo continue to soak his hands, Splinter reached into the medicine box, drew out several jars of herbs, and began mixing them into a paste. It was a generic recipe that soothed pain and aided in the healing of wounds.

"But Donnie -"

"Raphael, go and stand in the corner!"

Now _two_ of his sons were crying. Splinter shut his ears to both of them as he kneaded the paste into two strips of bandage, patted Michelangelo's hands dry with a clean cloth, and tightly wrapped the injuries.

"There," he said, when he was finished. "All better."

It was not, of course. Michelangelo now faced weeks of healing, followed by a painful recovery process and possible long-term effects. Indeed, the little boy looked at his father doubtfully.

Already, Splinter missed the days when his sons would accept anything he said unquestioningly. He did, however, have a trump card up his sleeve.

He tapped Michelangelo on the snout, then ticked one finger back and forth. "Bim, bom, now it's gone."

Michelangelo broke into a wide grin. _These_ words, at least, were still beyond questioning.

Splinter helped the little boy up from his lap. "Leonardo, help your brother find a book. I will read to you in a moment."

As the two boys ran off towards the bookshelf, Splinter stood up and strode to his third son. "Raphael, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Instead of remaining faced into the corner, Raphael turned to look at him defiantly - and then ran across the room, standing on his tippy-toes to put his hand on a strange, tiny lever on the wall.

"Donnie says -"

Splinter's heart stopped. "Raphael, do not touch that!"

"- not need fire anymore!"

And then the world was full of light.

* * *

Donatello was not entirely right, of course - the fire was still crucial for cooking and for boiling water. But with light blazing steadily from the ceiling, the boys no longer needed to crowd close to the fire pit while they played and practiced reading.

Raphael was severely punished, on the grounds that what he had done could have been very dangerous. The experience left him sullen and silent - a further setback in Splinter's efforts to encourage the child to use the more-correct sentences he was certainly capable of.

Before deciding what punishment to mete out, however, Splinter had questioned Raphael again.

"How did Donatello know that pressing that button would reduce our need for the fire?" he asked first.

Raphael fidgeted unhappily. "Tried it once before," he admitted. "While you were out."

Splinter's mental estimate of the punishment to come increased a few notches. "Did Donatello tell you to do that as well?"

Raphael nodded.

"Why did he say such a thing?"

"Wanted to see what would happen," Raphael mumbled.

"Did Leonardo and Michelangelo see this?"

Raphael nodded again.

Well, that at least explained the limited reactions from his other sons.

"What else does Donatello tell you to do?"

Raphael shrugged, not looking up from the floor.

"Raphael," Splinter pressed, "why do you like Donatello?"

"Cuz…" Raphael struggled with how to express himself, and resorted to using a complete sentence. "Cuz he's good at everything I'm not!"

Splinter raised a brow, encouraging his son to go on.

"He knows letters, and he doesn't hit people even when he wants to, and he never gets in trouble!"

"Well, he is in trouble now," Splinter said, and Raphael looked up at him, astonished. "Raphael and Donatello, you will _both_ do thirty flips right this instant, and tomorrow while your brothers play, you will explain to me why what you did was wrong." Something in Raphael's expression had changed while he spoke, and it unsettled him. "What is it?"

" _Whose_ brothers?" Raphael asked.

For a split second the question sounded foreign to Splinter; he didn't know what he had meant. Then he said, " _Your_ brothers, Raphael. Donatello does not have any brothers. He is a guest who will not be welcome in our home anymore if he cannot behave."

Raphael was not very familiar with one of these words. "I guest?" he asked in a small voice.

"No." Splinter held open his arms, and Raphael shuffled into them, resting his head on his father's chest. "You are my son. I will never send you away." He ran a paw over the little one's bare head. "Now, thirty flips."

Splinter watched and counted while Raphael served his punishment, and he pretended to watch and count for Donatello as well. When the thirty flips were done, Splinter gave Raphael a drink and sent him to bed.

In his own corner, he knelt before the tiny shrine he had built for his Master Yoshi, and he prayed.

* * *

That same night, while his sons slept under the cold lights, Splinter went up to the streets.

It was almost exactly five years since he had given up Gekkei Keiren, and in that time, he had never returned to the building where he had left his son. He went there now, but as he approached, he knew something was wrong.

The _smell_ was wrong. No animals, either sick or well, had been here in at least a few weeks. When he peered through the windows, the building was empty.

His son was gone.


	12. Chapter 12

_1996_

 _WANTED: Computer-savvy individual to install software system for small vet's office. Part time. Flexible hours. Must love animals._

April O'Neil circled the ad, took another sip of coffee, and continued skimming down the page.

"April! _There_ you are!"

The guys at the next table shot April a dirty look, as though she was responsible for her friend invading their personal space to pull out a chair in the crowded coffee shop.

"Irma," April said, trying to protect her coffee and newspaper from the pile of bags being dumped on the tiny, wobbly table.

"Look at this," Irma said, shuffling a stapled pack of papers to the top of the pile. "What are _you_ looking at?" This was directed to the guys at the next table, who mumbled something that couldn't be heard over the indie music playing in the background, and went back to their conversation.

The pack of papers was a calculus homework assignment, April quickly surmised, on which Irma had not done very well. The professor - or, more likely, an underpaid TA - had written a big _C-_ at the top of the first page.

"And midterms are coming up," Irma said. "April, you have to help me."

April was well aware that midterms were coming up. She was also aware that she had a stack of reading waiting for her, and soccer practice three times a week, and an increasingly pressing need to find a job. She told Irma this. "Plus I really need to start researching for my archaeology paper," she added.

"Why are you taking archaeology anyway?" Irma asked. "There have to be easier ways to fulfill your humanities requirement."

April decided not to mention that she had finished all her distribution requirements sophomore year. "It kind of runs in my family," she said. "I just feel like I can't graduate college without taking one archaeology class."

"Suit yourself," Irma said, with a shrug. "But when are you going to help me study?"

April sighed internally. Irma was a great friend - she knew how to make April laugh, and was always dragging her off on interesting adventures. The price was putting up with her inability to be sensitive about other people's needs.

"How about tomorrow evening?"

"Great," Irma said. "Meet me at my room?"

"Sure."

"Sounds good." Irma blew a pair of air kisses - an affectation she had allegedly picked up on a family trip to France many years ago, though no one seemed able to confirm that this trip had ever actually happened - scooped up her bags, and barged her way out of the coffee shop.

April finished her coffee, then bussed her table and headed back across campus to her room. It was a perfect October day, the kind that made New Yorkers forgive the stifling humidity of August. Students were strolling along the paths, taking the time to enjoy the colors of the leaves on the trees and the crunchiness of those underfoot.

April's dorm wasn't far, and she walked up the stairs thinking about which homework reading she should tackle first. When she arrived at her door, though, her thoughts were interrupted by a note scrawled on the whiteboard.

 _Extra practice tomorrow night 7:00! -Amanda_

Darn it. April liked her soccer captain a lot - Amanda was definitely the kind of person you wanted to have in your corner - but she did not hesitate to drop girls from the team if they didn't show up to practice. Irma was going to have to be rescheduled.

As April dug in her bag for her keys, she thought she would take care of that first. But when she opened the door, she saw that the light on her phone was blinking, indicating she had a message on her answering machine.

She dropped her bag on top of the low bookshelf, crossed the room, and hit the playback button.

"Aprillll." She would know that voice anywhere. It was her younger sister Robyn, now in her first semester at the University of Massachusetts. "College is so not as fun as I expected. Call me. Byeee."

Okay. Family first, then Irma, and then homework. April picked up the phone, referenced a scrap of paper taped to the wall, and called her sister's dorm room, on the off chance that Robyn was not out with her friends.

As it happened, she wasn't, and she picked up on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, Rob."

"April!" April wasn't sure whether she _actually_ heard her sister flop onto the bed, or if she just visualized it so clearly that the image came with a sound effect. "Ugh, college sucks."

"Why does college suck?" April asked, settling onto her own bed.

"Well, I went out with this guy last weekend…"

"Oh? Where did he take you?"

"To a place called Mike's Maze," Robyn said, a note of bewilderment in her voice. "Did you know that some farmers harvest their corn fields in the form of a maze, and then invite people to walk through it? I mean, who does that?"

"Apparently, some guy named Mike," April quipped, just to make her sister roll her eyes.

"Anyway," Robyn went on, "we're in this maze, and after an hour, I'm like, so done, you know? With the guy, I mean. But we're in a maze, right, so I can't just walk away."

"Do you think he planned that?"

"Oh, he totally planned it."

"Well, at least he's not dumb."

"He's not dumb at all," Robyn said. "He's majoring in astrophysics. He's a sophomore, but he declared, like, as soon as he walked on campus last year. He wants to be a literal rocket scientist. He's got this whole plan of how he's going to be working at NASA within five years of graduation."

"Why are all the smart ones jerks?" April asked, not without sympathy.

"I don't know," Robyn said, and then there was an uncharacteristic pause. "April, why does _everyone_ have a plan like this? It seems like all my friends know exactly what they're going to do with their lives. I don't even know what classes I'm taking next semester."

"Don't worry about it," April said. "College is a time to explore."

" _You_ didn't explore," Robyn said. "You've always known you wanted to go into computers."

Well, that was true. "I kind of wish I hadn't," April said, which was also true. "I feel like I've missed out on a lot by being so focused."

"Yeah," Robyn sighed. "Maybe."

"How are your classes this semester?" April asked.

"Oh my god, do you know there are midterms in, like, two weeks?"

"Yes," April said. "Yes, I do."

They talked for another hour, and by the time they got off the phone, April had almost forgotten that she was supposed to call Irma and apply for a job.


	13. Chapter 13

It wasn't until the following week, on an evening free of soccer practice and studying, that April had a chance to take the train uptown and turn in her résumé. She walked along the avenue, scanning the storefronts for numbers, trying to match the address on the torn-out classified in her hand.

Roy's Pizza, Denny's Shoe Repair, Morph's Adult Books… Gentle Care Veterinary Clinic. That was it. The windows were dark, but when April tried the door, it was open. She walked into a quiet waiting room.

While April felt that she met the ad's qualification of loving animals, a lifetime of apartment living meant that she had never owned a pet. Her parents, hardly animal-hating people themselves, were adamant that a New York City apartment was no place for a pet, and didn't understand how other people managed to find room for a dog or cat. Pets other than fish weren't allowed in NYU's dorm rooms, and it hadn't really crossed April's mind that she could have a pet after she graduated.

Hence, she had never been in a vet's waiting room before. It was somewhat like a doctor's waiting room, but less comfortable: the chairs were not cushioned, the floor not carpeted. It was not immediately obvious to April why this was so.

She was more interested in investigating the reception desk, which she quickly found was not equipped with a PC, or even with a dumb terminal. Instead, there was a neat row of paper books - for scheduling and financials, presumably - and along the back wall, shelves loaded with paper charts in manila folders.

She could see her tech skills were needed here.

As she straightened up from leaning over the counter, she saw what had been hidden as she studied the decor of the shadowy waiting room: behind a partition wall, a light was on in a back hallway. As she moved in that direction, hoping to find someone she could give her résumé to, she heard footsteps.

They were definitely not the footsteps of anything with four legs, and yet they didn't sound like the footsteps of a full-grown adult, either. Was there a child running around the office after hours?

It took April only seconds to stick her head around the doorframe, but in a million years she never would have imagined what she saw in that hallway.

It was the size of a child, that was for sure, and approximately the same shape, too. But it had a huge, round head with no nose, ears, or lips. Over a grossly rounded back, it was wearing a T-shirt with a cartoon character she probably should have been able to name. Thick, wide-set toes peeked out from under a baggy pair of pants.

It was green.

It was staring at her.

Like a CPU spinning out of control, April's brain was so busy trying to process this that it failed to register the new input of a woman swooping into view, putting her hands protectively on the green child's shoulders, and fixing April with an enraged glare.

" _What is going on here?_ "

"Mom, I'm sorry!" the green child said, before April could even begin to formulate an answer. "I didn't know there was supposed to be anyone here!"

"There _wasn't_ supposed to be anyone here," the woman said. She hadn't taken her eyes off of April. "How did you get in?"

"I -" April tried to point towards the front of the building, but her hand didn't quite make it all the way through the gesture. "The door was unlocked."

The penetrating gaze continued a moment longer, and then the woman looked away. "Damn it, you're right. I forgot to lock it." Her grip tightened on the child's shoulders. "Well, who are you? What do you want?"

"My name is April O'Neil." Regaining some control of herself, she pulled her résumé out of her bag and offered it to the other woman. "I came to apply for the job."

The woman snatched the paper, and scanned down the single page. "When can you start?"

"I - what?"

" _When can you start?_ "

"Uh…" Only one answer came to mind. "Monday, I guess."

"Good." The woman handed back the résumé. April held it awkwardly in front of her, not sure what else to do with it. "I'm Dr. Lamb. This is my son David. If you tell anyone about him, I promise you will regret it."

April's gaze flicked reflexively to the child, and she swore he was giving her an apologetic look.

"Come into my office," Dr. Lamb said. "I'll show you what needs to be done, and then you can start right away when you arrive on Monday."

David's eyes lit up. "Is she gonna fix the computer?"

"Yes, she is," Dr. Lamb replied.

"Can I watch?"

"No, you cannot."

The answer, though delivered calmly, was clearly not acceptable. "Whyyyy?"

"Because she'll be working while you're in class."

"But class is so _boring_ ," David complained. "Anna is so _slow_ and Aunt Terri goes over everything a million times."

Dr. Lamb crossed her arms. Her attention seemed to be entirely on her son, but April was certain her every move was being observed and judged. "Watch it, young man."

David was undeterred. "I can skip some review lessons and watch the lady fix computers. I'll learn a lot more that way!" He smiled winningly. April had the sense he got a lot of practice at this.

Dr. Lamb seemed to think she didn't have a good counterargument to that point, and changed to a different line of reasoning. "You can't watch her fix the computer, because there will be other people around."

"No there won't," David countered. "She'll be in the office, and the only one who ever goes in there is you."

April was certain Dr. Lamb was fighting a smile, as she changed the subject more decisively. "Did you feed both of them?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Then go upstairs."

David smiled brightly at April before disappearing up a narrow staircase, and she was sure he had not been fooled by his mother's tactics.

Dr. Lamb said nothing as she led April along the short end of the hallway and into a tiny office. Once inside, she swept a sheet of paper off the desk and dropped it into the wastebasket. "Goodbye, Toby Lyttle. You gave me the creeps anyway."

April had never heard of any such person, and decided not to ask.

Dr. Lamb sat in her chair. There was no other chair, confirming David's argument that no one else ever came in here. Instead of gesturing for April to sit, therefore, Dr. Lamb gestured to a stack of boxes in the corner. "One brand-new personal computer," she said, thereby identifying herself as a complete technophobe, and explaining why she needed to hire someone to install her office software. "One software program which my good friend and long-time colleague assures me I absolutely cannot continue to live without. Put the computer together, put the program on it, make it work, and I am a fully-satisfied employer."

"What are the hours?" April asked.

"I don't care when you do it," Dr. Lamb replied, "as long as it gets done."

"What is the pay?"

Dr. Lamb fixed her with a coolly calculating gaze. "How much do you want?"

Remembering that the minimum wage had just been raised to $4.75 an hour, April decided to go for broke. "Six dollars an hour."

"Five dollars," Dr. Lamb countered.

"Five-fifty."

"Done." Dr. Lamb made a note on a legal pad. When she looked up, she feigned surprise that April was still in her office. "Is there something else?"

"N-no," April mumbled, and practically ran for the subway stop.

Her boss was crazy. This was going to be the worst job ever.

* * *

Emma leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes.

It had been a difficult few years. The new office space she had moved into had really been too big for her, driving up the rent and making the place unaffordable. After making some inquiries, she had partitioned off part of the downstairs into a separate retail space, and had solicited applications from potential tenants.

The first application she received came from the would-be proprietor of an adult bookstore. Emma had had reservations about accepting it, worrying what impact it might have on her then-barely-six-year-old son. After some thought, however, she realized that David would never have any idea what kind of business was occupying that space. The storefront could not be seen from the upstairs windows, and Emma made sure to put in the lease terms that no telling noises would be coming through her walls.

It had only belatedly occurred to her that Anna, also only six at the time, would be walking past the bookstore every time she came over for homeschooling lessons. But it turned out that Terri, in her endlessly open-minded way, had already had frank conversations with Anna about erotica and other forms of adult entertainment. The young girl was completely unfazed by the merchandise in the window, as well as by the signs - which she could still barely read, anyway.

Anna was a wonderfully easygoing child, but it was true that she was not the brightest. This evening was hardly the first time that David had complained about the pace of Terri's tutoring. He had devoured every supplementary material that Emma had provided him with, and she was running out of ways to keep him occupied and out of trouble.

And now, for the first time since Meredith and Jeremy had gone their separate ways, she had an employee who knew she was raising a distinctly abnormal child. April was also the _youngest_ employee who had ever been in on the secret, and the only one Emma hadn't known and trusted before revealing the truth about David.

She was at the mercy of a college student.

It was infuriating, and yet… and yet David had made a very valid point about watching April work. While he loved all kinds of learning (with the exception of grammar and spelling, which he staunchly refused to comprehend), it had been obvious for years that he was especially partial to technology. Emma was hopelessly unqualified to help him in this regard, as was Terri. She suspected that Ron's colleagues were capable of it, but whenever they were asked to do anything other than run little experiments on David, they mumbled excuses and disappeared.

More than once, she had thought about telling them all to disappear permanently. But, even though she had known David intimately for eight years now, and was convinced he was perfect in every way, she still could not let go of the need to understand what he really was. And, as much as he hated the experiments, David remained insistent that he needed answers, too.

In their daily lives - work, school, play, managing his complex health issues - the matter of where he had come from was irrelevant. But someday, they both felt, his origins would turn out to be very important indeed.


	14. Chapter 14

In between tutoring Irma in calculus, April told her friend about her terrifying new boss - although, true to her word, not about the strange little boy.

"So don't take the job," Irma said.

"But it will be a good job," April countered. "It works with my schedule, the pay is great, and I'll be getting IT experience."

"Then do take the job," Irma said.

April looked at her friend in exasperation. "You're really not helping."

"Take the job," Irma said again, and this time she sounded like she cared whether or not April heeded her advice. "It's a part-time, temporary student job. You can walk out any time you want and it will feel awesome. Or you can see it through to the end, and then when you have a terrifying boss in a job that actually matters, it will be no big thing."

April thought about this for a minute. "You're right."

Irma smiled smugly, and tossed April the problem set she had just finished. "Of course I'm right."

April checked the page against the answers in the back of the textbook. "On this, though, you're completely wrong. Now, here's how you're _supposed_ to set up the problem…"

* * *

On Monday - in the afternoon, after class - April took the train uptown again, and walked into Gentle Care Veterinary Clinic. This time the lights were on, and the waiting room was occupied by a few patients, accompanied by their human masters.

"Uh, hi," April said to the woman behind the desk - about her own age, she thought, but not anyone she recognized. "I'm April, the new IT person. Is Dr. Lamb here?"

"Emma is in the exam room," the receptionist said, pointing around the partition wall. "Just go yell through the door."

April, in her limited work experience, hadn't encountered that form of employee-manager communication before, but she gave it a try. The exam room wasn't difficult to find, given the small size of the clinic and the fact that a loud whining noise signaled where the doctor was working.

"Dr. Lamb?" April said, poking her head around the doorframe. "Where do you want me to set up the computer?"

"Oh, you came," said Dr. Lamb, barely sparing April a glance. The client, hovering nearby, seemed slightly worried that the vet was surprised her employee had shown up to work. "Set it up in my office," she went on - with remarkable poise, April thought, given that she was busy wrestling a poorly-trained Dalmatian onto the exam table. "I'll have Linda keep the books on paper, and I'll just transcribe them into the computer in the evenings."

April thought that was a completely stupid plan - and was pleased to notice that the client seemed to think so too - but she really wasn't in a position to say anything. She just nodded, headed to the office down the hall, and started opening boxes.

She found the PC first. It was serviceable, not top-of-the-line. She hauled it onto the desk and started methodically unwrapping cables. In less than half an hour she had it going through its boot routines. While it churned through that, April opened the last box.

This one contained a stack of CD-ROMs, and a thick tome of a user's guide. April found a highlighter in one of Dr. Lamb's drawers, and settled in with the book and the comforting hum of a computer coming to life.

She must have lost track of time in the windowless office, because the next thing she knew, the computer had fallen asleep - broadcasting its dream of flying toasters - and the building was very quiet. She marked her page, stretched, and turned around.

And startled when she saw David standing in the doorway.

"Hi," he said. He looked much as he had a few days ago - negating April's vague theory that she had hallucinated the whole thing - except now he was wearing a shirt with stripes. "Can I watch?"

"I don't know." The corner of April's mouth quirked up. Despite David's unsettling appearance, she found him oddly charming. "What does your mom say?"

"Who cares what my mom says?" David replied, but April could tell rebellion wasn't really his style.

"I'm just reading the instructions tonight," April said, and showed him the huge book. "I should probably get going soon. Why don't you join me another time?"

He nodded eagerly. "When?"

"Hm." She pulled her planner book from her backpack, and studied it. "How about Wednesday?"

"But that's two days from now," he pointed out.

"That's right."

"How about tomorrow?" he suggested.

April raised a brow. "Are you haggling with me?"

She hadn't expected him to know what _haggling_ was - he looked too young for a word like that - but his reply was a confident "Yes."

April laughed. "I'd love to come tomorrow, but my soccer captain doesn't let us skip practice to hang out with boys."

David wasn't quite old enough to pick up on _that_ conversational gambit. Instead, he just looked at his toes and made a little noise of disappointment.

"Wednesday," April said. She wrote it in her book, then packed up the planner and the user's guide. She could read some on the train and between classes, and bill Dr. Lamb for the hours. She hoped. Zipping her bag with one hand, she reached to shut down the computer with the other. "I'll see you then, okay?"

"Okay," David said, and April found that she really was looking forward to coming back to work.

* * *

On Wednesday evening April arrived at the clinic to find it locked - but Dr. Lamb was behind the reception desk, and she opened the door as soon as her new employee tapped at the window.

"Miss O'Neil," said Dr. Lamb, before even saying hello. "In two brief encounters, you have managed to reduce my son's vocabulary to 'April Wednesday can I please'. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Unprepared for the question, April only succeeded in replying with "Um…"

"That's what I thought." Dr. Lamb locked the door behind her, and returned to the desk, where several paper charts were spread across the work surface. Taking a seat, she folded her hands under her chin and rested her elbows on the papers. "Miss O'Neil, let me make you an offer you cannot refuse. Teach David about computers, and I will find a way to pay you six dollars an hour."

"I - I'd be happy to," April stammered.

"Good." In the minimum possible number of moves, Dr. Lamb returned each sheet of paper to its correct folder, and replaced all the charts on the shelves. "I'll send him down in a few minutes." And without another word, the veterinarian turned out the lights and disappeared into the back hallway.

After a moment April headed that way herself, dropping her backpack on the floor of the office and booting up the computer. She had spent the last two days speedreading the manual, and hoped she had understood enough to install the software correctly.

She had just loaded the first CD into the drive when she heard soft footsteps in the doorway.

"Hi."

She swiveled around in the chair, as the computer drew a single tick mark on its long progress bar. "Hey, David. You're going to be disappointed tonight. I'm doing the boring part."

"There's a boring part?" David asked skeptically.

"Oh, sure." She waved him over, and he eagerly pressed up against the edge of the desk, undeterred by her warnings of boredom. "Computers are good because they do some things very fast. But other things they do very slow. See, it's loading the program now, and it's going to take hours."

"What's 'loading the program'?" David asked.

"Well, it's kind of like studying," April explained. She pointed to the stack of CD-ROMs. "The computer has to learn everything that's on these discs, and then it will know how to do the things your mom wants it to do."

"Computers can _learn_?" David asked, wide-eyed.

"That's right," April said, giving the boy a friendly poke in the forehead. "And while the computer is learning how to make schedules, your mom wants _you_ to learn how to use a computer."

"Oh, boy." Without even asking, David scrambled up into April's lap. "Teach me everything!"

April laughed. "Now hold on. I haven't learned _everything_ yet myself." Reaching forward with one hand to take the mouse, she rested her other hand on David's back - and forgot what she had been planning to say next. "David…" She ran her hand slowly down the hard, curving surface under his shirt. "What is this?"

"Oh." He made a noise of disgust, and pulled up his shirt, revealing stiff, yellowish plating along his stomach. At first April tried to see it as some kind of bulletproof vest, but as she took in the way it sat on him, she realized it was part of his body. "It's some weird disease I have. That's what my mom says."

"Okay," April said faintly, because she didn't know how else to respond to that. "Does… does it hurt?"

"No." David pulled his shirt back down, and pointed at the screen. "Can we do computers now?"

Instead of answering, she reached around him to trace a finger along the pale markings that covered the back of his hand like veins, then twisted around his arm before disappearing under his sleeve. "What are these?"

"It's just a thing," David mumbled. He pulled his arm close to himself, and April wished she hadn't asked. "Please, I just want to do computers."

"Okay," April said, and they did, until Dr. Lamb came down an hour later to tell David it was time for bed.

"You're a fast learner, Dave," April praised him, as he climbed down from her lap.

He wrinkled his snout. "Don't call me that."

April smiled at his expression. "Why not?"

"Because my name is David."

"Well, my sister's name is Robyn, but I call her Rob."

The expression only intensified. "That's a stupid name."

"Stupid, huh?" April glanced at Dr. Lamb, who was trying hard to keep a straight face. "How about if I just call you D?"

David thought about this. "Mom, does 'D' make me sound cooler?"

"Oh, yes," Dr. Lamb said. "It makes you sound at least ten."

David straightened up. April wasn't sure how old he was, but she suspected he was small for his age. "I guess you can call me D."

"Well then," April said. "Good night, D."

"Good night," he murmured, suddenly shy, and disappeared up the stairs.

April waited until his footsteps faded away. "What happened to him?" she asked.

"If you can answer _that_ question," Dr. Lamb replied, "I will pay you anything you want."


	15. Chapter 15

Life in the Lair had been good, these past few years. Splinter's sons were healthy and growing, progressing in ways he never could have imagined.

To begin with, Michelangelo had recovered well from his accident with the fire. Though he still bore shiny ripple marks on his forearms, and always would, he had suffered no loss of ability. On the contrary, during the weeks that his hands had been wrapped in bandages, he had taught himself to perform an astonishing variety of tasks with his feet. Every time Splinter turned around, Michelangelo was waiting to show off how he could now make the bed, or get a cup of water, or use a pair of chopsticks, with his toes.

Gifted, indeed.

Michelangelo hadn't lost these skills when he recovered the use of his hands, and in fact he had gained one skill more. Watching his father prepare a new batch of the medicinal paste twice a day had sparked his interest in the healing arts, and through dedicated study, he had already mastered half a dozen simple recipes. Someday, he would be the family doctor.

And the family would sorely have need of him. At this age, the boys' physical strength exceeded their capacity for sympathy, and they were constantly doing damage to one another in their ninjutsu training. Though Splinter was proud of how much his sons had learned about self-defense, he wished his lessons on showing mercy and pulling one's punches did not constantly fall on deaf ears.

Perhaps it was for the best. Someday his sons would face enemies who truly aimed to hurt, and it was not a bad thing if the boys became hardened to it now. The water pattern on Michelangelo's arms would not be the only scar his children wore.

What troubled Splinter more was that his sons did not confine their fighting to the dojo. Leonardo, at least, had a talent for diplomacy, and would reach for words first when he needed to resolve a conflict. Unfortunately, this strategy usually ended in frustration. Raphael was headstrong and seemed to understand no language but force, while Michelangelo was an emotional thinker on whom logical arguments had no effect. Often, Splinter had to step in to these disputes, reconcile his sons' disparate ways of thinking, and solve the problem for them.

Someday, he hoped, his sons would be mature enough to do this for themselves. Someday, he knew, the disagreements would be about something more important than toys.

For the most part, the children kept their small stock of toys separated. Leonardo preferred books. Michelangelo liked action figures, and still had a passion for crayons. Raphael, strangely, enjoyed receiving gifts of small electronic parts. Though he was rarely able to figure out how they worked, he would stare at them for hours, trying to unlock their mysteries.

But then there were toys they all liked: balls, decks of cards, and a sort of plank on wheels. Splinter, not knowing the name of this object, had dubbed it a roll-board.

The fights over this roll-board were truly out of all proportion, and Splinter was out of patience. He had considered getting rid of it - throwing it back in the alley where he found it - but it was such an effective way of getting his sons to practice balance and coordination that he did not have the heart to do so. He had tried desperately to find two more of these toys, but to no avail.

And so he searched high and low for another item that he hoped would end the fighting. And finally, one night, he found it.

* * *

The boys stared uncertainly at what their father had brought home. It was definitely not food. It did not look like a toy. They could not see how it would improve their home or their lives in any way.

It consisted of a smooth, shiny piece of paper, with four rows of circles marching down it. One row was blue, one red, one purple, and the last orange.

"What is it?" Leonardo asked finally.

"They are called stickers," Splinter said. Picking up the piece of paper, he peeled off a red sticker, demonstrating how to do so. He made sure all the boys saw, then carefully put the sticker back in its spot. "You will all be able to have some. I would like you each to choose a color."

For a moment, no one moved. Then Leonardo and Raphael grabbed for the sheet of stickers at the same time. Leonardo peeled off a blue one, while Raphael almost tore a red one in his haste.

"I win!" Raphael proclaimed, slapping the sticker onto his chest. Leonardo still had his sticker on his thumb, unsure what to do with it.

"It is not a competition, Raphael," Splinter said. This oft-repeated sentence had never had any effect before, and it didn't seem to have any effect now. Splinter let it go. Instead, he turned to Michelangelo, who hadn't moved yet. "Which color will you choose?"

"This one, I guess." Michelangelo pointed to the orange row, then peeled off a sticker and put it on his chest, as Raphael had done. Leonardo still hadn't put his sticker anywhere, awaiting further instructions.

"These are your colors now," Splinter explained. "You may put these stickers on things that belong to you. When you see something that has a sticker that is not your color, you must ask permission before using it."

"But Master," Leonardo said, after only a moment of thought. "Why wouldn't I put my stickers on _everything_?"

"Because that is against the rules," Splinter scolded, and Leonardo hung his head. "You must only put your stickers on things that belong to you."

"But who does the roll-board belong to?" Michelangelo asked, as Splinter had anticipated.

"Who do you think it belongs to?" Splinter asked, directing the question to all of his sons.

"Whoever finds it first!" Raphael shouted, already grabbing another sticker and leaping to his feet.

Splinter said nothing, as Leonardo and Michelangelo jumped up and ran after their brother. He had foreseen this possibility. His instinct had been to make his sons discuss the matter rationally, but that approach would have favored Leonardo, leaving Raphael and Michelangelo feeling left out and unfairly treated. This way, at least, introduced a random element that gave no one an unfair advantage.

Or not.

"It's mine!" shouted Michelangelo, the fastest of the boys, and the one most likely to leave toys in odd corners, instead of putting them back where they belonged. Leonardo, of course, had checked the roll-board's proper location first, while Raphael had charged around, searching aimlessly. Michelangelo had been able to go directly to where he had last played with the toy. Now he returned, showing his orange sticker in the middle of the plank.

"Very well," Splinter said, before Leonardo and Raphael could raise a coherent word of protest. "Raphael, thank you for that suggestion. What would you like to put your sticker on?"

Raphael thought for a moment. "That thing you brought home last week, I guess."

Splinter nodded, giving Raphael permission to go and put his sticker on the large, broken electronic item that was sitting in the corner. It wasn't a strategic decision - no one was likely to fight Raphael for the opportunity to use that object - but Splinter didn't say anything.

"What would you like to put your sticker on?" he asked Leonardo, when Raphael returned.

"A cup," said Leonardo, who had obviously anticipated his turn and thought about how to answer.

This caught Splinter off guard. "A cup?"

"I don't care which one," Leonardo said. "I just don't want to share cups anymore."

"Very well," Splinter said, and Leonardo went to the rack of dishes to put his sticker on a cup.

When he returned, Splinter asked the same question to Michelangelo, and they went around like that until all the stickers had been used.

* * *

The colored stickers were, by and large, successful. Leonardo had become less antsy around mealtimes, after putting his stickers on a plate and a pair of chopsticks. (Splinter had allowed him to tear a sticker in half, overruling Raphael's protests that a pair of chopsticks counted as two items, not one.) Raphael had become more focused in his studies of the electronic parts Splinter gave him. And Michelangelo, secure in the knowledge that he would get the roll-board back, had become more able to share it with his brothers.

And so, it was not many months later that Splinter brought his sons another strange gift.

"What are they?" Michelangelo asked.

They were three squares of fabric: one blue, one red, and one orange.

"They are ninja bandanas," Splinter said.

"We're real ninjas?" Raphael broke in, before Splinter could explain further.

"You are _becoming_ real ninjas," Splinter said, but the clarification was a waste of breath.

"We're real ninjas!" Raphael shouted, reaching across to give Michelangelo a high-three.

"When you wear these," Splinter said, a little more loudly, "you must do honor to yourself and your clan. Otherwise, everyone will know that Hamato Leonardo, Hamato Raphael, and Hamato Michelangelo are bad ninjas."

All the boys hung their heads. None of them wanted to be bad ninjas, even though it was often hard for them to overcome the temptation of short-term gain and follow the code of honor that their father had taught them.

Seeing that his point had struck home, Splinter said, "You may put them on."

The boys did so, solemnly, and when they raised their heads, they looked startlingly like young men. It wasn't just the way the bandanas hid the still-childish contours of their skulls, but the new gravity in their eyes.

"My sons," Splinter said. "You are going to be among the greatest ninjas of this clan. You do me honor beyond imagining already."

* * *

Over the winter, while his sons were lethargic, Splinter spent many hours carving. And in the spring, he presented them with one more gift.

This time, instead of gathering his sons in a circle, he asked them to kneel in a line before him. One by one, he called them to receive their gift.

"Hamato Leonardo."

Leonardo came forward, staying low, and dropping into _seiza_ again as soon as he reached his father.

"Leonardo. With patience and discipline, your skills improve day by day. You are constantly working to improve your form and achieve true mastery. I know that you will do no less in the next stage of your training."

He moved a blue towel - the least ragged he could find - to uncover a pair of gleaming tonfa.

"Leonardo, your weapon."

Leonardo touched the tonfa reverentially, before tucking them under his arms in the ritual pose, and bowing from the waist. " _Arigatou, Sensei._ "

Splinter nodded, and Leonardo returned to his original seat, laying the tonfa on the mat in front of his knees.

"Hamato Raphael."

Raphael came forward, as Leonardo had, and waited to hear his father's words.

"Raphael. With true heart, you give your greatest effort in every move. You love to learn new skills, yet understand that technique is nothing without underlying strength. I know that your dedication to these fundamentals will serve you well in the next stage of your training."

He moved a red towel, revealing a pair of tonfa with the same color painted on their handles.

"Raphael, your weapon."

It was obviously an effort for Raphael to stick to the prescribed movements, instead of seizing the tonfa in excitement, but he did as he had been taught. Bowing, he spoke the words: " _Arigatou, Sensei_."

Splinter nodded, and Raphael returned to his place in line.

"Hamato Michelangelo."

Michelangelo came forward, as his brothers had, and knelt before his father.

"Michelangelo. Rarely has there been a student so full of talent and so empty of arrogance. With joy and good will, you teach your brothers what I cannot show them. It lightens my heart to know you will continue to do so in the next stage of your training."

He folded back an orange towel, showing the third and last pair of tonfa.

"Michelangelo, your weapon."

With hands that Splinter had feared would never hold anything again, Michelangelo deftly flipped the tonfa into the proper position. " _Arigatou, Sensei_."

Splinter nodded, and Michelangelo rejoined his brothers.

The three of them sat there, straight-faced and motionless out of respect for the ritual, yet almost visibly vibrating with eagerness to begin working with their new weapons. Splinter kept them in that state, the last vestiges of their innocence, for just a moment longer.

"Today you begin the next part of your journey," he said then. " _Hajime._ "


	16. Chapter 16

_2001_

It was the first spring of the new millennium.

Over the past few years, Emma had survived the Y2K bug - whatever exactly that had been - the hanging chad debacle, and David deciding he wanted to be vegetarian. She had weathered financial ups and downs, Hurricane Floyd, and an uncharacteristic freakout from Terri when Sharon headed off to college.

Now, a peaceful, lingering May evening was passing her by, as she sat in her windowless office, doing the day's data entry.

It was slow going. Keyboards continued to stymie her. She couldn't understand why they weren't in alphabetical order; obviously their layout had been dreamed up by a sadistic dropout determined to bring low the well-educated.

Not that Emma needed a lot of help being brought low. She had finally paid off her student loans, but David's medical expenses more than made up the difference, and money remained a constant struggle. Though she hadn't felt good about it, Emma had demanded that Ron's friends start paying for the privilege of studying her son. They had responded by drumming up some research funding - on what pretenses, she didn't ask - writing her a check, and proceeding with their experimentations.

Even so, Excel continued to emotionlessly tell her that she was barely making ends meet.

She was logging the day's checks, watching the number next to TOTAL tick slowly towards positive numbers, when she was interrupted by the phone ringing. She was pretty sure she was not going to pass zero, but she would have to remain in suspense a little longer. Carefully clicking the Save button, she picked up the phone.

"Gentle Care Veterinary Clinic."

"Good evening," said an unfamiliar voice. "I am calling for Dr. Emma Lamb."

"Speaking," Emma said, even as she wondered who would be calling her at this hour.

"My name is Dr. Baxter Stockman," said the caller. He seemed to think this was highly noteworthy, but Emma had no idea who he was. "I am calling in reference to a former employee of yours, a Miss April O'Neil. Is it correct that she was in your employ in 1996 and 1997?"

For a moment, Emma had no idea who April O'Neil was either. Then she remembered: the college student who had first installed this infernal spreadsheet program for her.

"Yes, that is correct," she said.

"And what was your impression of Miss O'Neil?" Dr. Stockman asked.

Emma closed her eyes and thought for a moment, and images returned: the young redhead, patiently teaching her how to use the computer. David, unable to wait for April's next visit. A painfully large payroll check.

"I would recommend her without reservation," Emma said.

"Very well then," said Dr. Stockman, and hung up without even thanking her for her time.

Emma put the receiver back in the cradle, mystified. Who was this person with an even worse phone manner than her own, and what kind of work would April be doing for him?

Well, it would likely remain an unanswered question. Emma put it out of her mind, and returned to the answerable question of how her bottom line looked today.

Before she could enter even a single additional check, she was interrupted again.

"Can I keep her?"

Now _there_ was an easy question to answer.

"No, D."

"Mom, you're not even looking."

"I don't need to look." Emma tried to focus on the check in her hand. "I know you are holding a small animal, and the answer is no, you cannot keep her."

" _Mom_."

Sighing, Emma put down the check, turned, and took stock of her son.

He was almost as tall as her now, but so spindly it was amazing he could stand. The onset of puberty had not been kind to him. His toothpick-like arms and legs didn't look capable of supporting his huge, armor-plated torso.

As Emma had feared a decade ago, it had become impossible to find clothes for him. Terri's bottomless well of mommy-friend charity had run dry when it came to men's plus-size button-downs, the only kind of shirt David could comfortably get in and out of these days. Fortunately, Terri was a skilled seamstress, and in her usual cheerful way had simply started custom-making shirts out of old bedsheets and whatever else was available. It wasn't exactly a fashion statement, but it worked.

Terri had similarly begun making pants to fit David's unusual measurements, and he had taken to wearing them backwards. When Emma had questioned him about this, he had mumbled something about flies and tails, then hidden in his room for the rest of the day.

That was mostly what he did anyway. When Emma's first office computer had broken down after several years of service, and she had replaced it with a newer model, David had begged for the defunct machine. Emma had let him take it up to his room, where he had somehow managed to restore it to life. He now spent hours every day doing something called _surfing the internet_. He was also apparently _chatting with friends_ , but when he swore up and down that these other people couldn't see him, Emma let it go. The boy needed more people to talk to.

And now, apparently, he desperately needed a kitten. Not just any kitten, either, but one Emma had quickly ascertained was blind.

"David," she said, "you cannot adopt Stevie."

"Why?" he demanded. "No one else is going to want her."

Emma crossed her arms and waited. Over the past few years, David had continued to improve his persuasive skills. Emma, in turn, had fortified her defenses, but she sensed it was an arms race in which she was gradually losing ground.

"Here's my offer," David said. "I will do everything for her. I will also do all the after-hours care for the inpatients, _and_ I'll do your data entry, _and_ I'll write a program to automatically bill your clients and remind them to come in for another appointment."

Emma had been following until that last point. "You'll do what?"

"My friends taught me how," David said, even though that didn't exactly answer the question. "You'll earn a lot of money that way. Also, Kayla is making a killing on those racy novels. You should raise her rent."

Still trying to recover from the idea of automated billing, Emma's brain completely short-circuited at this last suggestion. "How do you know who our tenant is?"

David rolled his eyes. "Mom, I'm not dumb." This had become one of his favorite phrases around age eleven, and while it was true, Emma did not appreciate hearing it in a borderline-insolent tone ten times a day. "They're pirating our internet, so it was trivially easy to hack their books. Raise their rent. Trust me, they will not complain."

Emma regarded him, poker-faced. "Are you really offering all of that for a blind kitten?"

David snuggled the white furball closer to his chest. "I am."

Emma stared him down for another minute, but it was clear he was not giving in this time. He had a soft spot for the four-legged, the weak, and the different. Stevie was all three, and David was smitten.

Emma threw up her hands. "All right. Have it your way."

David broke into a wide grin, and practically leaped forward to drop a clumsy kiss in Emma's hair. "I love you, Mom."

"Yes, yes," said Emma. "Get out of my office."

"I'm going to rename her," David said, as he danced out through the doorway.

"Oh, god, no." Emma had made the mistake once of letting David name a litter of kittens, and had come back to find tags labeled _Linoleum_ , _Fluorescent_ , and _Stainless Steel_ hung on the cage.

"Her name is Snowflake!" David shouted from halfway up the stairs.

Well. Emma supposed it could have been worse.


	17. Chapter 17

One day Splinter woke up, and his children were gone.

In their place were three teenagers: tall, hard-bodied, and violently opposed to hugs.

Splinter should have seen this coming.

Perhaps his first hint should have been not long after the introduction of the stickers, when the boys came to him and said they wanted their own rooms. This was not feasible in the literal sense, of course, but by bringing home additional mattresses and hanging curtains to partition the sleeping area into separate spaces, Splinter was at least able to give each of his sons a little privacy.

More and more, the three of them took their separate toys to their separate chambers, and played quietly, out of Splinter's sight. After so many years of living in what was essentially a single room, it was disconcerting to not be able to readily see or hear his sons. Splinter found himself sniffing the air every few minutes, identifying each of his sons' distinctive scents, and reassuring himself that the traces were fresh.

They were there, and they were safe. Still, the fact that they did not want to be with each other, or with him, was deeply worrying.

* * *

It was Leonardo who worried Splinter the most.

Leonardo had begun to wage a subtle war against his brothers. He would order them to do various things - make their beds, practice their katas, join his games - and if they did not obey quickly or diligently enough, he would threaten to summon his powerful ally, Master Splinter.

Though Splinter usually avoided getting involved in these disputes, he knew that Raphael and Michelangelo were growing increasingly resentful of Leonardo's efforts to control their behavior. Meanwhile, Leonardo simmered silently over his brothers' refusal to go along with his commands.

"Why do you order your brothers around?" Splinter had asked one day, when Leonardo was sitting alone in a corner, watching his brothers with steely eyes.

"It's the only way they'll listen to me," Leonardo replied.

"And why should they listen to you?" Splinter asked.

Leonardo looked surprised at the question, and for a moment, didn't know how to answer. "Well, because I'm right," he said at last.

This was not quite the answer Splinter had expected. "Not because you wish to see them get in trouble?" he asked.

Leonardo's expression shifted from surprise to astonishment. "No!" he said, with unusual force. "I _don't_ want them to get in trouble! If they just did what I'm telling them, they wouldn't have to!"

The young boy was unable to articulate the rest of his thought, but Splinter could see it in his eyes: rather than _simmering_ over losing arguments, Leonardo had been _strategizing_ , trying to reason out a more effective way of getting his brothers to do the right thing, so they could avoid the consequences of a bad decision.

Splinter had long known that Leonardo was disciplined beyond his years, and fiercely devoted to his family. But this was the first time he saw that his most reserved son might have other gifts as well. Achieving mastery over such gifts, however, would need to begin with a difficult and subtle lesson.

"Leonardo," he began, "it is often true that you are right, in your mind. But to be right in your heart, you must help your brothers understand _why_ they should do as you say, rather than simply forcing them."

Leonardo looked down, and picked at a frayed end of his mask. A year ago, when the young ninjas had reached a new _dan_ , Splinter had commemorated the occasion by giving them new, more adult bandanas. "But it's hard," he said.

"You are not usually one to shy away from what is difficult," Splinter replied, a gentle reprimand. "Why do so now?"

"Because they don't listen!" Leonardo complained.

Splinter could not argue with this. There was a particular point on which Raphael was not listening to him lately, and he was still trying to figure out how to get his most stubborn son to agree to his request. But that was a conversation for later.

Now, he leaned forward. "My son," he said, in a low voice. "I must tell you a secret."

Leonardo glanced around before mirroring his father's posture. "What is it?"

"Someday," Splinter said, "you will have to lead your brothers. You have incredible gifts that will enable you to do this. But gifts are not enough. To succeed in this, you will need your brothers' trust, their respect, and their loyalty. You have not earned these things. And every time you threaten your brothers, you move farther from the outcome that you seek."

Leonardo frowned. "But I get them to do what I want. And someday, when they understand that I'm right, they'll be glad I did that."

Splinter shook his head. "No, my son. These are lessons you must understand. Keep your eyes always on the goal, not allowing small matters to distract you. And show great mercy to those whose aid you need, for they will not thank you for harming them, even if it was for their own good." He laid a hand over Leonardo's. "My son, it is not an easy path. You will need to know many things intimately - your brothers, your foes, the challenges that face you - and yet keep yourself apart from them, holding all in balance. You excel at coercing your brothers into doing their chores. But someday, you will need to inspire them into fighting a war, and you will need to bring them home again, safe and ready to follow you into fighting the next one."

He stopped speaking, then. Leonardo - only eleven at the time - stared at him in bafflement.

"I am sorry," Splinter said quietly. "You are too young. When this responsibility comes to you, you will still be too young. I wish it could be otherwise."

He left Leonardo alone then, thinking the boy would forget the conversation. But something must have sunk in, because after that there was less tattling, and more long-winded lectures. This tactic caused its own problems, but it was a step in the right direction.

* * *

And then there was Raphael.

"Why should I help you make a weapon for Leo?" Raphael demanded, when Splinter asked for his assistance with that task.

"Because I cannot do it myself," Splinter said, and showed Raphael the diagram he had sketched. "It must be made in a special kind of fire called a forge. I do not know how to build one, but you are bright and I am certain you can figure it out."

Raphael had peculiar reactions to this kind of praise. Over the last couple of years, he had had some successes in his tinkering. He had discovered how to make clean water flow from the wall, so at last the family did not need to boil sewer water and use it sparingly from the storage tank. He had also found that the pegs at the end of a cord attached to the mysterious machine he had put his first sticker on could be inserted into some small holes in the wall, and this caused the machine to begin making noise and showing pictures. All of the boys were enraptured by this device, and through listening to it, they had greatly improved their English.

Immediately following each of these successes, Raphael had entered a kind of manic phase, boasting endlessly of his latest accomplishment. But each time, after a little while, he again became terse and short-tempered, playing sullenly with his electronic toys, until he hit upon another discovery.

Today, he ignored the praise completely. "But what about _my_ weapon?"

"I am making you a jitte," Splinter said. "It is wooden and does not need a forge."

Raphael crossed his arms. "I don't want a jitte."

This surprised Splinter. He had thought long and hard to match each of his sons with a weapon that would suit their warrior spirit. Raphael's strength and enthusiasm, combined with his careless approach towards technique, made a clubbing weapon ideal for him. A jitte also would be easy to replace, when it inevitably got broken in one of Raphael's fits of rage.

Splinter explained as much, but Raphael was not impressed.

"I want sai," he said.

"Sai require dexterity beyond your skill level," Splinter replied. "They are hard to make and difficult to care for."

"I want them," Raphael repeated.

"You have not earned them," Splinter said firmly. "Leonardo has earned his katana. Please honor your brother by helping me make his weapon."

"No deal!" Raphael screamed in English - a phrase he had learned from the talking box - and he fled into his room.

Splinter understood all too well Leonardo's frustrations.

* * *

He waited until the end of a successful training session before bringing up the subject again.

"You did very well today," he said to Raphael, after Leonardo and Michelangelo had run off to wash up. "Perhaps I was mistaken about you being unprepared to begin training with the sai."

Raphael turned from hanging up his tonfa, and watched his father guardedly.

"I will make you an offer," Splinter said. "Show me that you have the skill for the sai, by gaining one more _dan_ with tonfa. Show me that you have the spirit for the sai, by helping me make Leonardo's katana. If you do this, we will use the forge you have built to make your own weapon."

"Why should I believe you?" Raphael challenged. "How do I know you won't go back on your word after we make the katana?"

"Raphael," Splinter said, "you know by now that I am training you to kill. But this is not the most important thing that I am teaching you. The most important thing is honor. If you do not have honor, you have failed as a ninja. If I do not have honor, I have failed as your father." He took a step forward, and lay a hand on Raphael's shoulder. "If you earn the sai, they are yours. This is my promise."

Raphael looked away, and didn't say a thing.

* * *

The forge was a hulking monstrosity, but the katana were a thing of beauty, far removed from the crude shivs Splinter had carved when his sons were infants. Leonardo's eyes shone as he took the hilts, wrapped in blue fabric, into his hands.

A few weeks later, Raphael passed the test for the next _dan_ in tonfa, one more level than his brothers had gained.

And that very night, a pair of sai were taking shape in the heart of the forge.

* * *

Lastly, there was Michelangelo. An easy child, he laughed his way through growth spurts, recovering his equilibrium with grace and good humor. He received his nunchaku, made from carved wood and chains stolen from playground swings, with none of the drama that had accompanied his brothers' new weapons.

But he was obsessed with the outside world.

Even more than Leonardo and Raphael, Michelangelo could not be torn away from the talking box. When Splinter began to allow the boys to accompany him on foraging trips, Michelangelo was constantly wandering off. More than once, he had very nearly encountered a human before Splinter yanked him back.

He was fearless and outgoing, and it hurt Splinter's heart that he could not allow his most social son to introduce himself to those who, under other circumstances, could have been his friends.

Michelangelo also never lost his childhood energy, and it was not long before their small home could not contain his physical exuberance. He was madly in love with roof-running as soon as Splinter introduced the concept, and began lobbying constantly for trips to the surface.

"Let's go out tonight!" he would suggest, bouncing at his father's side.

"We do not need anything," Splinter would say, as he neatly packed away the remains of breakfast.

"Then let's just go running!" Michelangelo would say.

"Not tonight," Splinter would reply, and the pestering would continue, until Splinter finally gave in.

At age twelve, Michelangelo began adding an alarming new proposal to his daily demand for an outing. "You don't have to come," he would say, when Splinter expressed disinterest in a trip to the surface. "We can go ourselves."

Fearful that his sons - nearly grown now, and increasingly talented in the ninja arts - would sneak out if he continued to say no, Splinter always gave in at that point, agreeing to accompany them topside. Allowing them to go alone was a line he was not yet ready to cross.

* * *

It was a strange and dangerous world that Splinter finally let his sons out into, that fall of 2001. Americans were pulling together as they hadn't in decades, yet anyone different was perceived as a deadly enemy. Splinter did not know how his sons, with their dual identities - New Yorkers through and through, yet indisputably _other_ \- would fare in this tense climate.

And yet he had to let them go. As they watched the devastation on the talking box, humans struggling to aid each other in the billowing clouds of toxic dust, Leonardo turned to him and said, "We can help."

And Splinter could not deny them.

They came home hours later, covered in gray film. They bathed, ate, and went out again, walking through a poisoned city with nostrils closed and heads low, helping who they could and vanishing again, ghosts at the end of the world as it had been.

Angels, perhaps, in the world that was dawning.


	18. Chapter 18

_2003_

April was running for her life.

The robots that she had spent two years patiently developing were now trying to kill her, thanks to her boss having secretly installed code to make them do exactly that.

"No big thing, no big thing, no big thing," April chanted, as she scrambled through the sewers. "Irma, you are so full of crap."

Then she tripped, and fell hard on the concrete, and everything went black.

* * *

She awoke to someone poking her. They were also saying something, but she couldn't understand them.

" _Daijoubu?_ "

April groaned. It was cold and dark and she had no sense of how much time had passed. All she knew was that something was very wrong.

" _O-jo-san, daijoubu?_ "

"Wh-what?" she mumbled.

"Right. English." Another poke. "Can you understand me now?"

April felt like she didn't understand anything at the moment, but she decided to say, "Yeah" and hope the world would stop throwing incomprehensible things at her.

"Good. Are you okay?"

This time April went with "No," in the hopes that the world might take pity on her.

"Um. Crap." Whoever had been crouching next to her stood up and paced around on the dusty concrete. "Listen, do you know why those… those robot things were after you?"

"Yes," April said cautiously. Feeling it was time to put in a question of her own, she added, "Do you know why they aren't _still_ after me?"

"Well, I broke them all." There was a quick scuffing noise, and something metallic went bouncing away down the tunnel. A piece of broken Mouser? "Do you know why they were after _us_?"

"Us who?" April asked.

"My family."

April was feeling a little more alert by this point, but she did not at all have a handle on the situation. Remembering how hard it had been to destroy a single Mouser, the fact that this unknown person had apparently destroyed an army of them was making her more than a little uneasy.

"Mr. Whoever-You-Are," she said, beginning to pull herself together and edge away as quietly as possible, "I don't know your family and I really can't -"

"Please." Something in the tone of his voice stopped her. "We lost our home and now my brother is gone. If you know anything that could help us…" He trailed off, then started again. "You won't find your way out of here alone. Please, just come and talk to my family, and then we'll help you get home."

It was a sympathetic plea, and yet coldly terrifying.

"Are you threatening to leave me down here?"

"I -" A long pause. "No. If you just want to go back to the surface… I'll show you the way."

April reached out into the darkness, and found nothing. "Who are you?"

"My name's Mike."

"My name's April."

The introductions hung between them for a long moment, and then she said, "Tell me about your brother."

He explained the story as they walked towards his family's new home. He and his two brothers had been "chilling" at their old home, when suddenly a bunch of little robots - _Mousers_ , she helpfully supplied - burst in through the wall. The resulting collapse had separated Mike and his brothers from their father, and they'd been forced to go to the "surface" on their way to reuniting with him. A series of unfortunate events had then led to "Raph" getting locked in the back of an armored car he had hidden in. Mike and "Leo", flummoxed by the electronic lock on the van's door, had only been able to watch helplessly as the car, and their brother, were driven off by members of a local gang, the Purple Dragons.

Absent from this story were why Mike and his family lived in the sewers, and why Raph had had to hide at all. April decided not to ask.

"And so now we're living here," Mike said, as they walked down a final passageway. An opening at the end of the tunnel had been hastily camouflaged by a huge mound of garbage bags, but a dim, blue-ish light was spilling out through a crack.

The chamber inside was much larger than April had anticipated, and it was in complete disarray. Bizarre wires and hoses snaked across the floor, broken stonework littered the oddly-arranged areas, and strewn over it all was something that resembled the move-in mess of very poor people.

"Welcome home," Mike said, in a dull tone of voice.

He called out into the echoing space, and in a moment someone appeared, seemingly from nowhere.

There was just enough light to see him by. April, already exhausted and confused by the day's events, had a hard time telling whether he was actually green, or whether the strange lighting just made him look that way. There was definitely something abnormal about his face, and she could not quite parse what was going on with his chest and stomach.

She had the strangest sense that she had seen him before.

As he looked back at her, his mouth slowly fell open. "Michelangelo, _nani shitetano_ …?"

"Leo, rude," Mike said. "She doesn't speak Japanese."

It was at about this point that it occurred to April to look at Mike. He was studiously _not_ looking at her, and pretending not to notice as she took in his bizarre profile and the domed armor on his back.

"Okay," April said. "Suddenly some things about your story are making more sense."

"What story?" Leo demanded.

"I told her about Raph," Mike said. April noticed that his tone was ever-so-slightly defensive.

Leo crossed his arms. "Yes, _Raph_. Maybe we should be looking for him, and not bringing humans home?"

"I was looking for him!" Mike protested, the defensiveness more obvious now. "I found her instead! Leo, she knows about the Mousers!"

"The what?"

"The little robots!"

Leo's eyes narrowed, and his gaze turned sharply in April's direction. "What do you know about the robots?"

"I -" It dawned on April that her two new acquaintances, though very short, were hugely muscular and appeared to be carrying weapons. This helped to explain how Mike had single-handedly destroyed so many Mousers. It also gave her the idea that she might not want to provoke them by admitting her involvement in the destruction of their former home. " _My boss_ invented them. I tried to stop him from releasing them, but it was too late."

"And now?" Leo prompted.

"Now I'm out of a job and kind of afraid to go home. If -" April took a breath, gathered her wits, and went for it. "If you tell me where Raph got into the car, and you take me home so I can use my computer, I bet I can find him. Once he's safe, you can help me deal with Stockman."

"Who?" Leo snapped.

"Dude, her boss," Mike said. "Seriously, you are so bad with people."

"Do we have a deal?" April asked, before the brothers could derail her offer with a side conversation.

Leo huffed out a breath and looked at his feet. "I don't know," he said. "I have to talk to -"

"What is going on here?"

April turned around. A four-foot-tall furry _something_ wearing a bathrobe and carrying a stick had just come around the pile of garbage.

Unable to cope anymore, April passed out.


	19. Chapter 19

April didn't know how long she drifted, half-awake, listening to unfamiliar voices. When she finally stirred, it was the youngest-sounding voice that reacted first.

"Look, she's waking up."

The softly-accented voice: "This conversation is not over, Michelangelo."

"But it's, like, paused, right? We wouldn't want to be rude to our guest."

A sigh that reminded April too deeply of her own father. "Yes. It is 'paused'."

April opened her eyes and tried to pull herself together. If she had succeeded, she might have been more prepared when the furry thing walked into her field of view. As it was, she scrambled backwards on the scuzzy mattress where someone had lain her, until she slipped off the far edge and scraped her elbow on the stone floor.

"Forgive me for startling you," said the furry thing, in its incongruously cultured voice.

"What - what are you?" April gasped.

The furry thing inclined its head. "You may call me Splinter." He settled, kneeling, on the floor. Whether this was to make her more comfortable, or because he was too elderly and infirm to stand, April couldn't tell. He slid a glance to either side, and without a word Mike and Leo came and knelt just behind him.

"I was once what you might call normal," Splinter said, in his calming tones. "A rat." In brief but elegant form, he told a story she could hardly believe: of three baby turtles, a mysterious canister, and an amazing transformation.

"And then what?" April asked. By this time she was sitting up, hugging a blanket. It smelled suspicious, but she was far too preoccupied to care.

Splinter shook his head. "That is a story for another time. Michelangelo has already told you of our current predicament. Now, in the midst of what is already a difficult time for us, we find ourselves at your mercy."

April furrowed her brow. Her first question was _Who names their son Michelangelo?_ but she decided to go with the second question. "What do you mean?"

The answer didn't come directly. "Leonardo tells me you have offered to help us find Raphael, in exchange for assistance with a problem of your own," said Splinter. "We accept your offer. But we must also ask that you keep our existence a secret from the surface world."

"Of course," April said, without hesitation. Something about this situation - something _familiar_ \- was still niggling at the back of her mind. "I mean, who would I tell, anyway?"

"Hm." Splinter fixed her with a penetrating stare, and April didn't know what to do, other than stare back. "Very well," the giant rat said at last. "Whenever you are ready, my sons will accompany you home."

"I'm ready whenever they are," April said, pushing away the blanket and straightening her shirt.

"I'm _always_ ready," Mike said, bouncing to his feet.

"Be careful," Splinter said. "We cannot afford another… accident."

April didn't miss the way Leo's eyes stayed on the floor, even as he climbed to his feet. "Let's go," he said, and they went.

* * *

The Turtles, as they still called themselves, were marvelous. When April told Leo and Mike where she lived, they led her unerringly to a manhole that turned out to be right in front of her home.

"I can't believe I'm saying this about a walk through the sewers," April said, as Leo replaced the manhole cover in its opening, "but that really is the best way to commute."

Mike laughed, too loudly, until Leo glared him into silence.

April unlocked the door of her building - through some miracle, her keys were still in her pocket - and was relieved to find everything was just as she had left it. In a moment, she had led the boys upstairs to her apartment, and settled at the kitchen table with her laptop. Leo and Mike seemed to have never seen such a device before, and they crowded close to watch.

"All right," April said, bending her fingers over the keyboard. "Now, where was Raph captured?"

Leo named the nearest intersection, and with a quick internet search, April had identified the surrounding buildings. "This next part might take a little while," she said to the two teenagers, who were still hovering anxiously over her. "Make yourselves at home."

It didn't take very long after all, since the warehouse's security cameras were, ironically, on a very poorly-secured network. This turned out to be a good thing, since April's guests didn't seem to know how to behave themselves in a civilized home.

"I've got it," she said, snapping their attention back to her and away from her breakables. On the video feed she had loaded, someone who looked a lot like Leo and Mike crept around the alley, then dove into the back of a truck. When the gang members closed the back doors of the truck a minute later, April was able to freeze-frame on the license plate.

"Great," April said. "Now I just have to cross-reference that against the registered vehicles database." In a couple of minutes, she had accessed that information. "The van belongs to Eric Sacks, who…" A few more keystrokes. "Doesn't exist. He's a flimsy fake identity."

Mike leaned close to Leo. "Are we still speaking English?" he whispered. "Because I am not understanding any of this."

"Never mind," April said. "Mr. Nonexistent Sacks is the owner of a shell company, which has several holdings in the city. If we check them out, I bet we'll find the van, and your brother."

Mike pointed a triumphant finger. "I understood that last part."

"Just give me a second to write them down," April said, reaching for a notepad.

"Don't bother," Leo said. "Let's go."

"But -"

"I have a good memory," said Leo, who was already standing by the front door. "Let's _go_."

April didn't argue.

* * *

True to his word, Leo fed April the addresses one by one, as she drove around the city in her own van, looking for any sign of the armored car.

What Leo _hadn't_ mentioned was that he wasn't good with car rides. On the other hand, maybe he hadn't known, since vehicles also seemed to be a new experience for the two Turtles. On the other other hand, maybe he was just neurotic like this all the time. That would explain Mike's blasé attitude towards his brother's increasingly agitated behavior.

Of course, Mike was agitated too. He just expressed it with non-stop talking about how "seriously super-bad" the situation was, instead of by almost literally climbing the walls.

Naturally, the armored car was in the last place they looked. As soon as April's headlights swept over it, Leo practically jumped through the windshield.

"There!" he shouted in her ear, as though she might have managed to not notice the huge vehicle parked incongruously next to an incredibly narrow building. The first floor of the building housed a pool hall, and it seemed to be doing a healthy business this evening. "Put your car next to that other car," Leo ordered.

It was a tight fit, but April hadn't learned to drive in Manhattan for nothing. As soon as she put the van in park, Leo threw himself to the other end of the cabin. "Mike, let's move," he barked. "April, wait for us."

"Oh, sure," April said to no one. Leo and his brother had vanished without even waiting for a reply. "It's not like I have anything else to do."

Deciding to leave the van running, April idled in the alley, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. For a while, everything was quiet. Then, suddenly, the doors of the pool hall burst open, and several gang members ran out, hands in the air, screaming.

They dispersed quickly, and everything was quiet again. The next thing April heard was a deep voice - definitely not Mike or Leo - coming from behind the van.

"What do you mean, 'get in the van'? That didn't work out so well for me last time."

"Raph, since when do you ever learn from experience?" _That_ was Leo. "Get in the van."

"Who's even driving it?"

"April is."

A long pause. Then, in a disbelieving tone: "Springtime is driving the van."

"No, _April_. She's a - Raph, just get in the van! I'll explain on the way."

"I am not getting in that van."

Now Leo's voice rose with a note of hysteria. "Fine, then go back to the Purple Dragons! See if I care!"

The next thing April knew, she had some kind of dagger against her throat, and a deep voice was purring in her ear. "Get out of the van. Nice and slow."

April didn't know how Mike had just gotten in the passenger seat, but she was glad for his sudden presence. "Whoa whoa whoa!" he exclaimed. "Do I have to do everything around here? April, this is my bro Raph. Raph, this is our new friend April. Now put down the weapons and shake hands. Seriously, basic social skills."

Raph growled and withdrew, slinking into a seat in the back of the van.

"Ooooo-kay," said April, who still hadn't taken her hands off the wheel. "Where to?"

"Eastman and Laird," said Leo, who apparently had climbed in and shut the doors while April was being held at knifepoint by his crazy brother.

"Now we're taking her home?" Raph said.

"Oh, Mikey already took her home," Leo replied darkly.

Mike laughed.

April just drove.


	20. Chapter 20

It was a chaotic evening. Raphael insisted he was fine, Michelangelo could not stop acting out their first victory, and Leonardo loomed sullenly over everything. Splinter considered punishing them all for their various reckless decisions, but he was so relieved to have them all safely home again that he decided not to say anything. His mind was too much on the next day, when he would have to let them go in order to fulfill the other part of their bargain with April. They were honor-bound, and at any rate, the boys were so eager to get revenge on the robots that destroyed their home that Splinter could hardly have stopped them, even if it were not for their promise.

Also on his mind was the strange fact that April seemed less comfortable with the boys than she had been before. Splinter sensed that something had happened between them, but Michelangelo's dramatizations shed no light on the matter.

When the histrionics had gone on long enough, Splinter ordered them all to bed.

"I can't sleep," Michelangelo said, before spending a single second attempting to do exactly that.

"Michelangelo," Splinter snapped. "You have always excelled at sleeping. I am certain you will find a way to succeed at it tonight as well."

Then, without a further word, he retired to a pile of blankets in a side chamber. He lay there a long time, looking at the ceiling, and thinking.

He was still not yet asleep when he heard soft footsteps approaching his room.

"Leonardo," he said, "it is not your fault that Raphael was captured. Go back to bed."

Leonardo stopped in the doorway. "It's not that," he said, and there was a pain in his voice Splinter had rarely heard.

Splinter sat up. There were no candles to light, but there was no need - no one had yet bothered to investigate how to turn off the strange fragments that glowed softly from the walls. In the dim light, he gestured for his son to enter. "What is on your mind?" he asked, as Leonardo dropped to his knees.

"Why is April not afraid of us?" Leonardo asked bluntly. "I mean - she wasn't afraid of Mike and me. She only passed out when she saw _you_." He looked at his father, his expression deeply troubled. "Sensei, have you been wrong all these years? Have we been hiding down here for _nothing_?"

Splinter took his time folding back the blankets and resettling into _seiza_. "I have observed this as well," he said, when he had gathered his thoughts, "and I do not know the meaning of it. Please understand, my son, that it has always been my belief that the world aboveground would not accept you, and that it has always been my intention to keep you safe."

"I know," Leonardo said softly. "I didn't mean…"

Splinter held up a hand. "It is all right. It is normal to wonder. I have often wondered myself, and wished that our lives could be other than they are. But remember, my son, I have lived in that world. It is not kind, even to those who are not so different."

Leonardo nodded, clearly thinking about what had just happened to April. "I'm sorry for waking you," he said.

"Do not be," Splinter replied. "I am always here, for any questions you may have." He smiled at his son. "Sleep well."

"Good night," Leonardo murmured, and rose to return to his makeshift bedroll.

Splinter sensed that he himself would not sleep at all that night. He had too many questions of his own.

* * *

Splinter sensed his sons' return, and then he heard it, and then he saw them leaping around the pile of garbage.

"That is _three_ victories!" Michelangelo was shouting, his hand up, fingers spread wide. "Count 'em, three! We are on a roll, bros!"

"I take it your mission went well," Splinter said, a vast understatement relative to his relief at seeing his sons come home safe once again.

Leonardo dropped to his knees in front of his father, and his brothers followed suit. "We were successful, Sensei. Those robots won't be bothering anyone else again."

"And Mr. Stockman?" Splinter asked.

"Got away," Raphael said bitterly.

"But we blew up his whole lab!" Michelangelo added quickly. "He's not going to be doing any more evil science for a while."

April held up a small silver disc. "And with this evidence I'm going to turn over the police tomorrow, he'll have a hard time ever running a lab again."

"Well done," Splinter said. "I thank you for your assistance, Miss O'Neil."

"No problem," April said, carefully pocketing the disc. "I'm just glad that's over."

"Indeed." Splinter glanced at his sons, then looked back to their new friend. "Might I escort you out, Miss O'Neil?"

She hesitated a moment - he noticed the uneasy distance she was keeping - before nodding.

He waited until they were out of earshot of the Lair before resuming the conversation. "I am glad to see how well you get along with my sons," he commented.

"They're great," April replied. "If I ever have kids, I hope they turn out like that."

"Oh?" Splinter said. "You have not met many children like them?"

April laughed a little. "Well, I don't think I've ever met teenage ninjas before. Or, you know, teenagers who do what they're told."

Splinter was not sure he agreed that his sons matched that second description, but he set the thought aside. "Miss O'Neil," he began. He stopped walking, and waited for the young woman to do likewise. "I must ask you directly: have you met children like my sons before?"

She blinked at him in the dim light. "I - I don't know what you mean."

"I mean," he said carefully, "children who are Turtles."

Now she looked anywhere _but_ at him. "I don't know, Master Splinter."

"Miss O'Neil."

"I really couldn't say."

"April."

Her gaze snapped back to him. "I promised I wouldn't tell!"

No sooner had she said the words, then she clapped a hand over her mouth.

Splinter did not look away. "Miss O'Neil," he said, "I did not tell you the whole truth about where my sons came from. There were _four_ baby turtles on that day. One of them was very ill, and I had to give him up to another home. If you have seen my son… please tell me."

Her eyes searched his face. "How do I know you're not lying?"

"If you have met a Turtle child who is _not_ my son," Splinter said, "I would be most fascinated to know. But there could be no two like Gekkei Keiren. He was a most unusual color, with stripes like so." Slowly, he traced a claw in a twisting pattern over his forearm.

April closed her eyes, and breathed slowly. "His name is David," she said. "He's a great kid." She described a location, some distance from both her home and Splinter's. "Last I knew, that's where he was living." She paused, a long time. "His mom would do anything for him."

"Thank you," Splinter said, and they walked the rest of the way to her apartment in silence.

"If we meet again, Miss O'Neil," he said, as April began to climb the ladder to the surface, "please do not say anything to his brothers. They do not know."

He was grateful that she did not comment.


	21. Chapter 21

It took all of Splinter's considerable self-control to not immediately slip down the tunnel towards the neighborhood April had described. Instead, he turned his footsteps back towards his new hiding place - towards the place his strong-spirited sons were already calling home.

Over the next few days, he could not get a moment to himself. Michelangelo, emboldened by his successes in the surface world, was even more determined to take every opportunity for a journey topside. Splinter found himself embroiled in recurring debates regarding exactly how many successful missions his sons had been on. Michelangelo insisted that the number was three, while Splinter argued he could not count as a success the mission on which he had allowed his brother to be captured, nor the mission that subsequently became necessary to get Raphael back. The number of successful missions was one, he concluded. But Michelangelo remained undeterred from claiming a three-out-of-three winning streak.

Leonardo agreed that their adventures could have gone better, and was deeply interested in dissecting why and how they had gone wrong. He sat in Splinter's still-unfurnished room for hours, going over and over the mistakes that had been made, with a particular focus on his own. Nothing Splinter said could convince the young Turtle that the unfortunate outcomes had not been his fault. Nor could any of the rat's cajoling move Leonardo to abandon these strategy sessions and help put their dilapidated living space into good order.

Raphael, meanwhile, had a new swagger, and bragged to anyone who would listen about how he had gotten kidnapped by a street gang and lived to tell the tale. Michelangelo hung on every word, and seemed to believe all of them too, but Splinter was skeptical of the events that had allegedly transpired in the pool hall. When he asked his son if he wanted to discuss his deeper feelings about the experience, Raphael declined.

What Raphael preferred to do was take on the role of everybody's bodyguard. In his younger years, he had always been anxious when Splinter went out, leaving the boys alone. But as he had grown up, he had returned to the behavior from his earliest days, affecting disinterest in his father's departures. Now he declared that he had better accompany Splinter on his outings, for the master's own safety.

Michelangelo thought this was an excellent idea, and Leonardo could not let his brothers go anywhere without their leader-in-training, and so scavenging expeditions became a family affair.

It was maddening.

Fortunately, Splinter had a secret weapon. His sons were going through one of those phases in which they were easily exhausted, this time probably due to a growth spurt. One morning, Splinter subjected them to a brutal training session, then ordered them to spend all afternoon cleaning the Lair. By evening, none of the boys could stay awake, and Splinter was free.

Leaving his sons asleep on the now-much-cleaner floor, he crept out of the Lair. As he moved swiftly along the tunnels, following the directions April had given him, he wondered why Gekkei Keiren was not living in the same place where Splinter had left him so many years ago. Had he been passed on to another guardian? Had this family, like his own, been forced to abandon their home?

Splinter put the questions out of his mind, and focused on finding the right street. He knew the sewers in this area well, and it did not take long before he was making the familiar - though always risky - transition from the subterranean realm to the streets above.

He concealed himself in a shadowed corner, and looked around. The neighborhood was not exactly as April had described. The shoe repair business was nowhere to be seen, and the pizzeria belonged to Rupert instead of Roy. But there was the "adult bookstore" - selling difficult books filled with text, Splinter supposed, rather than books of pictures - and these were the cross-streets that April had named.

Splinter looked at the last storefront, the one that had two small windows, instead of the large windows the other shops had. He looked at the sign above the door. He had seen that sign before, though at the time, he had not been able to read the markings on it.

 _Gentle Care Veterinary Clinic._

He took a deep breath. He could smell the people who had walked here earlier in the day, and the hot dog cart that had served them at lunchtime. He could smell garbage and pigeons and car exhaust. And he could smell the strange intermingling of sick and healthy animals that had first attracted him to this place of business, fifteen years ago and two miles away.

With a quick glance around the area, Splinter darted across the street to the building. Carefully, he examined its layout.

His sons had described April's home to him: a mostly empty area inside the front door, and then, up a hidden staircase, a comfortable living space. They were mystified by this arrangement, which Splinter had to acknowledge was not at all like where his Master Yoshi had lived, either in Japan or in New York.

But perhaps Gekkei Keiren's home was similar. Through the small windows, Splinter could see an open space, with simple chairs arranged along the walls. This did not look like a place someone would live.

Looking up, he could see several more windows. All of them were dark at this hour. Two of them had their shades drawn - the sleeping rooms, Splinter guessed. But one set of curtains had been left slightly open, while the other looked like it had been firmly shut a long time ago, and never touched again.

Splinter scaled the wall almost before he knew what he was doing, and pressed his nose to a crack in the window seal.

His son. _His son_. The earthy smell of reptile, overlain with the odor of illness. Gekkei Keiren had not gotten well, but he was alive.

Splinter was suddenly frantic to get inside. He scrambled across the old brickwork to one of the uncurtained windows, wrestling with the pane until it opened and allowed him inside. He moved low across the carpeted space, following his spatial intuition to the other side of the window where he had been able to smell, but not see, his son.

From long years of practice, he opened the bedroom door silently despite his haste. He did not know what he had expected to see inside - Gekkei Keiren, awake and smiling, waiting to greet him with open arms? - but it was not this.

In the dimly lit room, he saw a nightmare of objects he could not identify. Tubes and wires snaked from metal poles, while strange machines balanced on spidery stands. In one corner, something like the talking box sat on a desk, but it was connected to additional equipment Splinter did not know the purpose of. Small lights of various colors shone and flashed from these machines, casting eerie illumination over the room, and indicating who-knew-what terrifying functions.

To add to the horror, a small white cat was curled up, asleep, in the bed.

It was everything Splinter had ever feared for his sons, and there, in the middle of it, next to the cat and attached to the machines, was Gekkei Keiren.

There could be no mistaking him.

One painfully skinny arm, a pair of needles stuck in it, hung over the side of the bed. Like his brothers, Gekkei Keiren slept on his stomach, his domed shell tenting up the blanket. A strange plastic mask sat over his nose and mouth, hissing softly with every breath.

Splinter's instinct was to destroy everything in the room and take his son as far from this place as possible. He was horrified at himself for allowing such a thing to happen to his child. Why had he ever given up the vulnerable young turtle? What had he _thought_ would happen? No, he had _not_ been wrong all these years.

Splinter's hand was on the nearest pole before he made himself stop and look again. Gekkei Keiren's face was calm behind the clear plastic. The blankets were clean and in good condition. The room was comfortably warm, and there were many books on a shelf in the corner.

Gekkei Keiren was not in danger - he was asleep. The tubes and wires were medical equipment, keeping him alive and healthy. He was safe and happy in the only home he had ever known.

He needed to know his other home as well. He needed to be reunited with his family. But abducting him from his bedroom was not the way to do it.

Still, Splinter could not resist… he moved forward to lay a paw on his son's forehead.

Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of his touch. Perhaps, overwhelmed by emotion, he had been careless in his movements, not stealthy enough. Whatever it was, Gekkei Keiren stirred, and then his eyes snapped open.

"Wh-what…?"

His speech fogged the inside of the plastic mask, and then he tore the implement from his face and began screaming.

"Mom! _Mom!_ "

Splinter ran, barely remembering to shut the window behind him. He was not yet ready to confront his son's other parent.


	22. Chapter 22

Emma Lamb still loved mornings. Despite everything that had happened in the past fifteen years, the sun still rose each day, and she was still reliably there to see it.

This held true even when she'd had a restless night, as seemed to happen a lot lately. David's medical condition had seriously deteriorated with the onset of puberty, and it had become far too common for Emma to be woken up by Snowflake biting her nose, demanding assistance for her master.

And then, a few nights ago, David had had some kind of bizarre night terror. When he had recovered the ability to speak coherently, he had insisted that there had been some kind of huge dog in his room. No - not a dog. Maybe a werewolf. Emma had searched the entire apartment and found no evidence of any such thing. She'd told David that he was just stressed from the two-day power outage New York had just suffered, and sent him back to bed.

But the story didn't fade with the sunrise. At breakfast the next morning, and over the next several days, David continued to stick to his story. She had even caught him visiting paranormal websites, researching similar sightings in Manhattan.

It wasn't unusual for David - brilliant, curious, and housebound, with far too much time on his hands - to suddenly take up researching odd topics. He tended to pursue them obsessively, share more of what he learned than Emma really cared to know, and then move on to the next thing.

This, too, would probably blow over.

With that thought, Emma refocused on the quickly-passing present moment. It had been a steamy night, and as the sun rose, water vapor curled up from the warming pavement. It was, in Emma's opinion, beautiful.

And then, out of the haze, an apparition.

It was mammalian, and so Emma liked it immediately, although she could not identify it. It had a long, whiskered face, a hairless tail, and - somewhat unsettlingly - a bipedal stance. Emma could not help noticing that it was somewhat werewolf-esque - or, at least, not included on any list of species recognized by mainstream science.

It was looking at her.

"Good morning," it said.

"Good morning," Emma replied, a sentiment she wholeheartedly agreed with.

"I am your son's father."

This was a more difficult proposition to accept. Emma looked the creature up and down, slowly and with no hint of embarrassment.

"That is biologically impossible."

"And yet, you are his mother," the creature said, in an accent Emma could not quite identify.

"Touché." She crossed her arms. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"You may call me Splinter," the creature said, in a formal way Emma did not particularly care for. "I wish to know that my son is well."

That was information Emma couldn't give, because it wasn't true - but also because she had not gotten through the last fifteen years by giving out information about David to every unidentifiable being that came calling.

She decided to do a little probing of her own. "Where were you on the night of August 17th?"

The creature - Splinter - had no visible reaction to this question. "I am sorry, I do not keep track of dates…"

"Six nights ago," she prompted.

Again, no reaction, for a long moment. And then, Splinter looked at the ground. "I apologize for any disturbance that I caused," he said softly.

Emma's heart almost stopped in her chest. "I think you'd better come inside," she said, taking a step towards the alley door.

Splinter hesitated.

Emma put her hand on the doorknob. "If you know about my son," she said, "you know I'm not going to do anything stupid."

Without a backwards glance, she went inside.

A moment later, Splinter had joined her, slipping into the kennel room and shutting the door behind him - silently, she noticed. His quick, intelligent eyes scanned the room before returning to her.

"How do you know about David?" Emma demanded.

"I am his father," Splinter repeated.

"Yes, I got that." Yanking open a drawer, Emma grabbed a can opener, beginning the daily routine of feeding the inpatients. "I mean, how did you know he was _here_?"

Splinter did not reply.

"I'm going to ask you just one more time," Emma said, pausing in her work, and ignoring the way a medium-sized dog was trying to squirm through the bars of its cage. "Who do I have to kill?"

"I will answer only because this question shows you care too much about your son to kill his friends," Splinter said, "and I dearly hope she _is_ a friend, because otherwise we are both in grave danger." He held her gaze a moment before saying, "April O'Neil."

Emma banged the can opener against the counter, provoking a startled hiss from her feline boarder, which in turn caused Splinter to take a wary step away from that cage. "I knew it. I am never hiring a college student again." Fitting the can opener back against the tin of dog food, she continued her work. "How is April, anyway?"

"She seems well," replied Splinter, who seemed more perturbed by the presence of the cat than by Emma's erratic behavior.

"And how do you know her?" Emma asked, in a light tone, as though they were merely discussing common acquaintances at a cocktail party.

"My son brought her home," Splinter said, in a despairing cadence shared by parents everywhere.

"Tell me about your son," Emma said, and this time it sounded more like an interrogation.

"I have three sons," Splinter said. "David has three brothers."

Emma turned slowly, the half-served breakfast forgotten. "And I found David in a box of kittens because…?"

In a calm and graceful manner, never moving or asking to sit down, Splinter told her a long and unbelievable story.

* * *

He would not go upstairs - he felt strongly that it was important for David's first meeting with his other family to be planned in advance - and he did not drink coffee, but he allowed Emma to bring him a cup of tea.

"So let me get this straight," Emma said, after they settled in her office with two steaming mugs and a chair grabbed from another room. "David actually is a turtle, only 'mutated' to have the posture and cognitive capacity of a human."

"Yes," Splinter replied.

"And how exactly did the 'ooze' cause this miraculous transformation?"

"I do not know," Splinter said.

"Well, where did it come from?"

Splinter only shook his head.

Emma sat back in her chair, watching the patient way Splinter tolerated her gaze. "You did the right thing, Splinter," she said finally. "I don't say that about very many dumpers. But in this case, surrendering David was the right call. There is no way he would have survived in a sewer."

"And how is he surviving in your home?" Splinter asked, a topic they had carefully avoided since those first moments in the alley.

"He's… not well," Emma admitted. Sensing that it was her turn to tell a story, she briefly described David's medical history, from his original near-catatonic state, to his years as a more-or-less thriving little boy, to his current complex condition.

"Plus, he's a teenager," Emma concluded, for the first time allowing Splinter a glimpse of his son as a person, rather than as a patient. "He doesn't need a reason to be tired and grouchy."

"I entirely sympathize," Splinter said. He set his empty mug down, just so, and rose from his chair. "Dr. Lamb, I am keeping you from your work and your child. Thank you for all that you have shared with me. We will speak again soon."

"I'm sure we will," Emma said, and just like that, Splinter was gone.

Now, _there_ was something she would have to investigate.


	23. Chapter 23

Splinter knew that his irrational behavior was not going unnoticed by his sons.

It had been a mistake to creep into Gekkei Keiren's bedroom late at night, and the early-morning excursion had been even more poorly planned. Splinter had had a vague idea that if he simply waited in the alley at sunrise, the woman would emerge, speak to him kindly - as she had to the dog so many years ago - and all would be well.

But as he sat hiding near the door, he slowly realized that this was such a foolish plan, it did not deserve to be called a plan at all. Frantically, he tried to think of another course of action. Probably it would be best to just go home, and come again when he was more prepared.

And then, the door opened.

Splinter's visual memory of the woman was poor, but he never forgot a scent. This was her. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he stood in front of her, exposing himself to a human as he never had before.

And all, more or less, was well.

Afterwards, though, Splinter chastised himself for his failure to strategize properly. He could not take his sons to meet their brother in such a reckless fashion. He could not _tell_ his sons about their brother in such a haphazard way.

And yet, he kept beginning the conversation, only to abort without telling his sons anything, retreating awkwardly into some meaningless tangent, and leaving the boys deeply puzzled.

He sensed that they were worried about him, and he _knew_ that there were conversations going on behind his back.

But not tonight.

Leonardo was curled up on the couch reading a book, Michelangelo was sprawled on the floor quietly playing with action figures, and Raphael was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is Raphael?" Splinter asked the room at large.

"He went out," Leonardo said.

"Out where?"

"I don't know." Leonardo looked up with an innocent expression, and Splinter did not think it was faked. "He just said he was going out."

More and more recently, Splinter wished he had a way of contacting his sons when they were "out". They had all observed that humans had a type of device that seemed to allow for such long-distance communication, but they did not know how the technology worked.

All he could do was wait.

Raphael came home late, sauntering into the Lair, looking very pleased with himself. Splinter was not impressed.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Out," Raphael said. Showing little respect for his father, he turned away to hang up his weapons.

Splinter growled, which got Raphael's attention, though not quite as quickly as the master would have liked.

"I met a guy," Raphael said. "We hung out."

Splinter flattened his ears. "You are 'hanging out' with humans?"

"Who else am I supposed to hang out with?" Raphael replied, with an angry gesture. "He's okay. Doesn't care I'm a Turtle."

"Sensei…" That was Leonardo's plaintive voice, rising up from behind the back of the couch. "Michelangelo met a human, and she's okay, and now Raphael met a human, and _he's_ okay… What's going on?"

"That is enough!" Splinter roared, loud enough that all his sons snapped to attention immediately. "It is time for us to talk."

They gathered quickly - Leonardo eager but anxious, Michelangelo curious, and Raphael broiling with anger. They all knelt before him, as they had since childhood.

"I will tell you a story," Splinter said, as he settled into _seiza_ opposite the little semicircle. "Long ago, there was a very lonely rat."

"Yeah, yeah, we've heard this story a million times," Raphael interrupted.

"And you will listen to it again," Splinter snapped. "One day, this rat happened across four baby turtles."

" _San_ , _Sensei_ ," Michelangelo interrupted. "Three."

Splinter fixed him with a level gaze.

"You said _shi biki no kame_ ," Michelangelo supplied. "Four turtles. But there were three."

"No, my son." _Son_ and _san_ sounded nearly the same when Splinter said them, a fact that had always delighted Michelangelo. "I did not misspeak."

The boys exchanged glances as they processed this new version of the story.

"But… then where's the fourth?" Leonardo hazarded.

Splinter's shoulders slumped. "He is not with us."

"Yeah, we got that," Raphael said. He flicked at Michelangelo's arm. "Even shell-for-brains here can count. So where _is_ he?"

"You must understand," Splinter said, "he was not like you. He was very, very ill."

Michelangelo's question came in a small voice. "He's… dead?"

"For a long time, I believed he was," Splinter replied. "But I have recently learned he is not."

A puzzled frown creased Leonardo's brow. "How could you not have known he wasn't dead?"

There was a pause as the boys put the pieces together.

"Because you got rid of him," Raphael said. "You threw him away!"

"I did not throw him away," Splinter said, his voice rising. "I gave him to one I believed could help."

It did not take long for Raphael to solve this part of the riddle. "Are you tellin' me," he said slowly, "we got a brother who's been living with a _human_ this whole time?"

"Sensei!" Leonardo gasped.

"I did not have a choice," Splinter said, over the erupting babble. "It was a risk I had to take."

"Fuck that!" shouted Raphael, who had been picking up some unsavory English lately. "Fuck everything! I knew this was crap!" Before anyone could stop him, he jumped to his feet and ran out into the sewers.

"You lied to us," Leonardo said, and Splinter could see the reflection of a shattered world in his widened eyes. "You lied about everything. Sensei, how could you?" He searched Splinter's face, and then, without waiting for an answer, disappeared into his room.

Splinter looked to his youngest, who hadn't moved. "And what do _you_ think of me, Michelangelo?"

Michelangelo shrugged. "You're still my dad."

Splinter sensed that his cheerful son was, as usual, hiding his pain.

But for now, he would take what comfort he could get.


	24. Chapter 24

Emma was not ready for this.

It had never crossed her mind that David might have a family somewhere, and so she had never thought about what she would do if some people showed up claiming to be his relatives. She thought about it now, ruminating on how to handle the situation.

Part of her wanted nothing to do with Splinter and his sons. Though she still balked at calling herself a mother, years of protecting David had left her fiercely reluctant to share him with anyone. What did he need a family for, anyway? He already had one - herself, his grandparents, Aunt Terri and her kids. Plus there was Ron and his colleagues, who, while not exactly family, definitely qualified as responsible adults who took an interest in David's development and wellbeing.

And yet, this seemed like the wrong answer.

She asked Terri for advice on how to break the news to David.

"Surprise him," Terri suggested, when she was done exclaiming about how wonderful it was that David had more siblings in the world. Terri never thought there were enough children in a family, though having recently passed fifty, she expected that the next babies in her arms would come from either Sharon or Tom's girlfriend. "Invite them over without telling him in advance."

"I don't know," Emma said. "David isn't really used to surprises."

"No one is used to surprises," Anna pointed out. She was still home, still homeschooled, and when she wasn't giggling with David about something-or-other, she was usually with her mom. She didn't seem to have any other friends. "If you're used to them, they aren't really surprises."

Emma had to agree that this logic had some merit. Plus, it would have the decided benefit of allowing her to avoid a very awkward conversation.

Splinter had shown up again, another morning. "My sons are anxious to meet their brother," he had said.

Emma, though not intimately familiar with the ways of siblings - especially long-lost ones - had sensed that this was not the whole truth, but she had decided not to press the point.

They had arranged a meeting. The time was set for not just after work, but well into the evening. This, Emma did not need to question. She intuitively understood Splinter's reluctance to be out before dark.

After dinner that night, she could not get settled. She moved around the apartment with uncharacteristic restlessness - pulling out the kitchen chairs and then pushing them in again, straightening up her spare possessions, looking at the pictures on the walls as though she hadn't seen them every day for years.

"Is something wrong?" David asked.

"Just waiting for some visitors," Emma said.

"Oh," David replied. When his mother said "visitors," she always meant "someone who doesn't know about you." Someone who was there to see Emma, who would go on thinking her unseen son was just a normal, antisocial teenager.

David went into his room and shut the door.

Emma paced the apartment. Splinter had told her to wait upstairs, which didn't seem to make sense. How would she hear him knocking at the alley door?

And then, she heard a tapping at the living room window.

She wasn't used to that, and she nearly jumped out of her skin, which also was not a common experience for her. A city girl, she had never heard a tree tapping against a window. One time a pigeon had landed on her air conditioner, pecked at the window, and stared through the glass, giving Emma the sudden, unsettling sensation that she was living in a zoo exhibit. But that was about it.

The tap came again.

She flew to the window, and there was Splinter, crouched on the fire escape. As quickly as her shaking hands allowed, she unlatched the pane and slid it open.

Instead of climbing through, Splinter turned to speak to someone just beyond her line of sight. "Go inside, quickly."

And suddenly, she had three young men in her apartment.

They looked like David - or, more accurately, they looked like they might be cast as David in a biopic directed by someone who believed all actors should be able-bodied and extraordinarily attractive, regardless of what characters they were portraying. The boys had David's green, scaly skin, and his heavy, turtle-like casing of bone. But they also had layer upon layer of muscle, everywhere, and a ready, self-assured stance. They were watching her warily.

By the time Emma had regained even half of her wits, Splinter had climbed into the apartment, and had not only shut the window but drawn all the shades in the room. "Be seated," he commanded, and Emma found herself obeying almost as quickly as the boys did.

And then, there they were. Emma was sitting in her living room with four strangers who claimed to be her son's father and brothers, and finally, _finally_ , she might find out where David really came from.

And it was time that he did as well.

"David…?" she called, in an uncharacteristic rising tone. "Would you come out here?"

"I'm tired, Mom," came his voice through the door.

"Please come out, David," she said, her eyes still fixed on her guests.

"I really don't want to meet anyone tonight."

The visitors shifted uncomfortably, looking towards the bedroom door.

"David. _Now._ "

There was some muffled whining, and then he came out.

Emma didn't need to turn to know what her guests were seeing. David was wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt, half-buttoned, over a pair of loose pants. Snowflake was balanced on his shoulder, and he was, as he had said, tired. It was plain in the lines of his face, the curve of his thin frame.

She knew all of that without looking. But she turned anyway, to see his reaction.

There wasn't any. That was normal. For a young man not terribly used to novel occurrences, David had an uncanny ability to keep his initial thoughts to himself, showing nothing but a poker face until he had decided how he felt about the new experience.

"Is this a joke?" he asked, his face still blank.

"This is not a joke," said Splinter.

David's eyes swept over them again. "Of all the questions I want to ask, I have to start with: Why aren't you wearing clothes?"

"Why _are_ you wearing clothes?" asked the one who was wearing little more than a red strip across his face.

"Because that is what people do," David said, in his most condescending tone.

"Don't talk to your brother like that," Emma said, and as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized that whatever fantasy she might have had of a joyful, movie-perfect reunion between David and his family, she had just completely blown it.

David turned to her, ever so slowly. "My what?"

"Brother!" said the one with the orange strip, throwing his hands in the air and bouncing off the couch, before Emma could even begin to redeem herself. "Hi. I'm Mikey. It's _super_ cool to meet you, dude."

David took a step back.

"Sit down, Michelangelo," Splinter said, in a low voice. "David is not ready."

David warily watched Michelangelo sink back into the couch cushions, then turned to Splinter as though he hadn't quite noticed him before. "You were in my room." He said it with calm certainty, and without waiting for confirmation, he turned back to his mother. "I told you." He regarded her, as she tried to think of what to say. "You were expecting them tonight. How long have you known?"

"Only a couple of weeks."

"Does Ron know?"

"No."

"Who is Ron?" asked Splinter.

"We'll talk later," Emma said, her eyes still locked with her son's.

"Why aren't they sick?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"Where did they come from?"

"I don't know."

"What -" His eyes went wide, scared. "What happened to me?"

"Maybe you should -"

But he had started to shiver, non-words falling from his mouth in a meaningless stammer, and he wasn't listening.

"Damn it," Emma swore. "David - Snowflake, diazepam. Diazepam."

The cat leaped from her master's shoulder and scampered into David's room, while Emma lowered her shaking son to the floor.

"What's wrong with him?" one of the boys was asking, in an over-loud voice. "What's happening?"

Ignoring him, Emma grabbed the syringe Snowflake brought her, uncapped it, and jammed it into David's arm.

"WHAT THE HELL," another of the boys bellowed, and then there were some swift movements behind her, but she didn't turn to look.

"He's in shock," Emma said, putting the empty syringe up on the end table. "It happens to him when he gets overwhelmed."

"Why's he overwhelmed?" Michelangelo was suddenly kneeling across from her, putting a gentle hand on David's shoulder. "We were totally friendly and everything."

She shook her head. "No, it's my fault. I - I didn't tell him about you."

"Perhaps that was not the best idea," Splinter said quietly.

"Seemed like a good enough idea to _you_ for fifteen years."

Splinter whirled to face the one in red, who, Emma now noticed, was holding strange daggers in his hands. "That is enough, Raphael."

"But he's going to be okay, right?" said the one in blue, who had materialized at Emma's side.

"He'll be fine. It just takes a minute for the meds to work."

The young man studied David's slack face, his painfully thin arms. "Sensei, you… you weren't kidding. He's really sick." He looked up, his eyes troubled. " _Gomen nasai…_ "

"There is no need to apologize," Splinter murmured.

Surrounded by his mother, two brothers, and cat, David began to stir. "Moooom," he moaned.

"I'm here, D."

"Mom, I passed out."

"Only a little."

"In front of strangers." Embarrassed, he pressed his face into her chest.

"Hey, I'm not a stranger," Michelangelo said, prodding David in the arm. "I told you, my name's Mikey." No response. "Come on, dude, look at me."

A long moment, and then David pried one eye free to look.

"Way to go. Now look at him."

David looked at the next nearest brother, and the one in blue looked back. "Leonardo."

"Raphael," rumbled the one in red, when David's gaze found him.

"And I am Splinter," said the last, when their eyes met.

"Who _are_ you?" David asked, as Emma helped him sit up.

"If you are able to listen," said Splinter, "we will tell you everything."


	25. Chapter 25

They felt their way into the conversation slowly, as Emma brought tea and blankets. The boys ended up all sitting on the floor; Splinter's sons seemed to think that was completely normal, and while David pulled away from their touches, he allowed them to surround him in a protective semicircle.

"So who names their kid 'David'?" Mikey asked.

"I'm named after my great-great-uncle," David replied.

"Your what?" said Leonardo.

"You know, my mom's dad's mom's brother," David said, but the other boys just looked baffled.

"What's with the cat?" asked Raphael.

"Snowflake is my service animal," David said, and scratched her ears. "I've had her since she was a kitten."

"What are you sick with?" Leonardo asked.

David sighed and played with his mug. "I have a thermoregulatory disorder, a problem with synthesizing vitamin D, and a very unusual form of fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva. Plus I'm diabetic."

The boys looked at each other. " _Kurikaeshite itadakemasuka?_ " said Leonardo.

David just blinked at him a moment before realizing he'd been spoken to. "Huh?"

" _Kurikaeshite itadakemasuka._ "

"Uh…"

Leonardo's face fell. "You don't speak Japanese?"

"Why would I speak Japanese?"

"It's where we're from," Mikey said. "We read manga and eat donburi and we're, y'know, ninjas."

The corner of David's mouth turned up. "Okay, _this_ part is a joke, right?"

In response, Leonardo reached over his shoulder, drew a long sword from a holster on his back, and lay it across his knees.

David stared at it. "Have… have you had that the whole time?"

"Of course," Leonardo replied.

David ground the heel of his palm into his eye. "I think I'm a little overstimulated." He rested that way a moment, then said, "But you guys are FOP too."

"What?" said Mikey.

"Fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva," David repeated. Sitting up, he reached out to tap the hard ridge over Raphael's shoulder. "A disorder of abnormal bone growth."

The boys looked at each other. "We're turtles," said Leonardo.

"Right," said David, "FOP 'turtles'."

"No, actual turtles," Leonardo said slowly.

David stared at him. "You're not serious."

Leonardo shifted, sitting up even a little straighter. "Where do you think we came from? We're turtles, only mutated to be sort of like humans."

A smile began to creep across David's face. "Excuse me?"

"There was an accident, and we fell into the sewer with a canister of glowing green ooze, and it mutated us."

David burst out laughing. "Oh my god, it's like you've never heard of Occam's Razor."

Leonardo drew back. "What?"

David wiped at his eyes. "Occam's Razor. The simplest explanation is usually the right one."

"Okay," said Leonardo, "but Sherlock Holmes. When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

David looked at him with amusement. "So really, you're going with _mutated turtle_ over _rare but well-described medical disorder_?"

"Holy crap," Raphael said suddenly. "You're Donatello."

David blinked at him. "Who's Donatello?"

Raphael was leaning forward, staring at him intensely. "You are."

"Let me rephrase that," David said coolly. " _Who_ is Donatello?"

"He's -" Raphael pulled back. "He's a guy I used to know. Smart as fuck but condescending as shit."

"Well, I never met you before today," David said, "so you must be thinking of someone else."

Mikey's brow had formed a deep furrow. "Raph, are you talking about your -"

"Shut up," Raph snapped. "Just - just forget it, okay?" Gripping his mug tightly in one hand, he half-turned away from the little group.

"Okay, but wait a minute," said David, who was rarely inclined to forget anything. "Talk about just having met people. Mom. Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom."

"Yes, what?" said Emma, who had been half-listening to the boys while talking to Splinter.

"How could you just have met Splinter a couple of weeks ago?" said David. "You must have known him this whole time."

"Ah…" Emma began.

"Mom…?" David twisted a corner of blanket. "How did I get here…?"

"I -" As much as Emma wished otherwise, there was no avoiding it. "D, I found you in the alley."

"I left you with some kittens," Splinter added, which was absolutely not helpful at all.

David's jaw slowly dropped, while the other boys stared at him in confusion. "He dumped me? I'm a kitten dump?" He jerked his mug, splashing the hot liquid over his hand. "Even Snowflake isn't a kitten dump! How could you not have told me?"

"D -"

"I hate you all!" David shouted, shoving his mug at the nearest brother and struggling to disentangle himself from the blankets. "You're all insane," he said to the other boys, "you're a terrible mother," he said to Emma, "and _you_ -" He turned to Splinter with his most scathing expression. "- are a _kitten dumper_."

He glared one more time at his assembled family, then stormed into his room, Snowflake trotting at his heels.

A frigid silence fell over the group.

"What the fuck just happened?" said Raphael, holding a half-empty mug in either hand.

Mikey shook his head sadly. "Dude's got some issues."

"I'm sorry," said Emma. "He gets like this."

"It is all right," said Splinter. "It is difficult for everyone." He set his mug down on the table. "Perhaps we should go."

"But -" began Leonardo.

"We will see each other again," Splinter said. He nodded to Emma. "I will be in contact."

"Splinter, wait," Emma said, as he ushered his sons out the window. He paused and turned back to her, while the boys disappeared down the fire escape - or maybe _up_. Emma couldn't be sure. "Is it really true?" she asked. "Are they literally mutated turtles?"

"They are," Splinter said.

"Can you prove it?"

Splinter thought for a moment. "My knowledge of science is very limited," he said. "But I will show you what I can."

"Thank you," Emma said.

Splinter moved towards the window, then nodded at the bedroom door. "Go to him. It is when children feel most abandoned that they are truly most in need of their parents."

"And what about us?" Emma asked.

Splinter turned to look out at the alley. "For all the mistakes I have made as a father, and all the choices I regret, the accident of having _become_ a father is not one that I would change."

In a single graceful move, he swung himself out through the casement. "I will see you soon, Emma Lamb. _Yoroshiku onegaishimasu._ Please, take good care of our son."

As the curtains fluttered in the empty window, Emma wished she knew how.


	26. Chapter 26

Emma didn't go to David immediately. Instead, she went downstairs, walked along the familiar narrow hallway, and flicked on the lights in her office.

The space was sparsely decorated, just like the apartment above: a utilitarian desk with the hated computer and its snaking peripherals, a lone chair, a trash can. On the walls, nothing except a few reference notes.

And then, the bookshelves, crammed with her patients' medical records. The active files were behind the desk in the waiting room, for easy retrieval by the receptionist, but the records of former patients were stored back here.

David had often lambasted her for her lack of security. "Mom," he said, "all your critical files are in manila folders on an open shelf in a room that doesn't have its own lock."

And yet, even he had never fully hacked her system.

Moving to the simple metal bookcases, Emma pulled out a purposely-mislabeled folder from a section of shelf that looked like all the others. She lay the folder on her desk, unopened.

Then she turned off the lights and went upstairs.

"Go away," David said in response to her knock.

The knock had been more of an announcement than a request, so Emma went in anyway. David was lying on his bed, Snowflake curled calmly next to him.

"Go _away_ ," David said again, to the wall.

"I can't comment on their sanity," Emma said, referring to the other boys, "and it is probably true that I am a terrible mother. But for the record, because I know you care about accuracy, Splinter is not a kitten dumper." She moved to the bed and sat on the edge of it. "He didn't leave that box of kittens. He just put you in it to keep you warm. He saved your life, D."

David still stubbornly faced the wall. "I wish he hadn't."

"D -"

"I wish I were dead!" David struggled to sit up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and bracing himself on his skinny arms. "I don't want this life, Mom. I can't do this anymore."

Emma hugged him.

"I'm so tired," he said into her shoulder.

She just stroked the bony plates on his back, the strange growth that weighed him down.

"I didn't get the whole story," he said, pulling away, and there was the insatiable curiosity that kept him going. "Where did they come from?"

"Here's the story Splinter told me," Emma said, "and no, I haven't been able to independently verify any of this." She took a deep breath, not quite able to believe she was about to repeat such a bizarre tale. "Splinter used to be a normal rat, living on the streets of New York City. One day, he saw a near-accident - some sort of truck almost ran someone over. Fortunately, there were no serious injuries. But there were some losses.

"First, a young boy lost his pet turtles. In the confusion, he dropped their bowl, and they fell down a storm drain.

"Second, the back doors of the truck came unlatched, and some of the cargo bounced out. By chance, that cargo - a small canister - also rolled down into the sewer.

"Splinter decided to follow the turtles and the canister to see what had happened to them. He found the turtles unhurt but the canister smashed. The turtles were crawling around in the liquid that had been inside.

"Splinter stayed near the turtles. When they - and he - began to change in unusual ways, he could only attribute it to the effects of the unidentified liquid.

"Splinter began to think of the four turtles as his sons, but one of them was a real problem child. Wouldn't eat, lots of vomitus. Splinter didn't have a vet tech to deal with that for him."

"Mom."

"Okay, okay. The turtle was obviously really sick. Splinter didn't know what to do. Eventually, even though he was afraid of how people might react to him and his family, he decided to give his sick son to someone who seemed to know about animals."

"But he didn't _give_ him to you," David said, catching on to the narrative. "He dumped him - me - with a box of kittens."

"Right," said Emma. "I found you the next morning. I called Ron for help. You know I don't know anything about reptiles."

"But I'm not a reptile," David said, watching her closely. "I'm not a turtle."

"No, of course not," Emma said. "But you sure looked like one when you were little. I wish I had taken pictures."

"And then what?"

"Well, after some trial and error we figured out you had off-the-charts uncontrolled diabetes. As soon as we normalized your blood sugar, you perked right up."

David played with the edge of the blanket. "What happened to the kittens?" he asked, the kind of barely-relevant question that always served as a warning sign that he was working on something much bigger.

"I don't even remember which kittens they were," Emma replied, truthfully. "I'd have to look in my records."

"Did… Mom, did you adopt me earlier than I think?"

Emma sighed. "David… when you go down to feed the inpatients in the morning, you'll find a folder on my desk. It's a part of your medical record you've never seen."

David nodded, silently.

"Go to bed now," Emma said.

David rolled back onto the mattress, but pulled the blankets up only as far as his waist. He dangled his arm off the side of the bed, waiting for his mom to insert the lines that would give him life-sustaining medication as he slept.

"You're not the worst mom ever," he mumbled, as she poked the needles into his veins with practiced ease.

* * *

"You kept me in a cage and almost euthanized me," he said with stormy eyes, when they passed each other in the kennel room the next morning.

"Good to know you're not actually sorry to be alive," Emma murmured, after he had stomped out.

When she went upstairs at lunchtime, there was a recipe for donburi on the kitchen table.


	27. Chapter 27

On the way home, there was only the scuff and slap of feet, the boys moving as ninja, as their father had taught them. Even when they got home, they were still strangely silent, the shock of the evening leaving them unsure of what to say.

"Okay," Michelangelo said finally. "Of all the questions _I_ want to ask, I have to start with: You didn't name him 'David', right? I mean, what a geek name."

"No," Splinter said. He would have smiled at the trivial question, but he knew much worse was coming. "I did not give him that name."

"What was his name before he lived with his mom?" Michelangelo asked. He settled on the couch the boys had already brought to their new home ("I cannot live with _fuuuuurniture_!" Michelangelo had cried, in mock anguish), and hearing that he had opened the conversation, Raphael and Leonardo drifted closer, listening from the shadows.

"He did not have one," Splinter lied. There were some things his sons still did not need to know. "I had not named you yet."

"He must have been really little, huh?" Michelangelo pulled out a nunchaku and played with it, a sure sign that he was more uneasy than he thought he was letting on.

"Indeed he was," Splinter said, and this time he allowed himself a small smile, at the fond memory of his sons when they were infants.

"Why did you leave him in a box of kittens?" Michelangelo asked. "You hate cats."

"Sometimes," said Splinter, "one must lie down with the enemy."

"You mean," said Raphael, "handing one of your kids to a human, while telling your other kids that any human would kill them as soon as look at them?" He halfway detached himself from the shadow, arms crossed, aloof and belligerent at the same time.

"Your brother was going to die," Splinter said, with cold honesty. "There was no further harm that any human could do to him. But not knowing what they _would_ do, I could not take the risk of exposing myself or my healthy children." He knelt on the floor - this time, not merely his preferred sitting position, but a rare sign of deference to his sons. "If I had seen then what I have seen now… I wish it could have been otherwise. You deserve the world, my sons. It was never my intention to keep you from it, only to keep the evil aspects of it from you. If I have overestimated their number or their power… I am sorry."

His sons were silent, neither accepting nor rejecting his apology. Michelangelo played with his nunchaku, the links of the chain sliding back and forth, the soft _tink, tink_ echoing off the walls of the stone chamber.

"It was strange," Leonardo said, as he came forward, settling himself close to Michelangelo, seeking comfort. "I didn't understand anything he said. Not just because he used difficult words, but because the things he wanted to talk about…" He looked up, his expression troubled. "Master, how could I meet another Turtle and feel like we have nothing in common?"

"He has had a very different life," Splinter said. "It will take some time for us to all get to know one another."

"When will we see him again?" Michelangelo asked.

"Soon," Splinter replied.

"Will he come live with us?"

Splinter shook his head. "He is not well. He cannot live in a sewer."

Michelangelo sat forward, grabbing his toes. "Maybe we can go live with him."

Splinter's mouth quirked up. "I do not think Dr. Lamb is prepared to board three ninja teenagers."

"Oh. Yeah." Michelangelo let himself tip backwards, his shell falling against the couch cushions. "Raphie, stop being a creeper. You gotta have a question, bro."

Raphael had melted back into the dim corners while his family talked, and he did not show himself now.

"It is all right, my son," Splinter said. "You may ask me anything."

For a moment, there was no response. Then Raphael came into the circle of light, his step steady but his voice shaking.

"I got just one question," he said. He stopped several strides from Splinter, looking down at him. "You told me once I was your son and you would never send me away. Guess you didn't feel that way about _all_ your sons. There anything else we oughta know?" He exchanged a brief look with his brothers, then looked back at Splinter, awaiting an answer.

"You have no other siblings, if that is what you are asking," Splinter said. He allowed the disrespect; he deserved it. "And I will never send you away, unless it is absolutely necessary - to save your life, to advance your training, or to guarantee your freedom." He held Raphael's gaze, unblinking.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Michelangelo raise his hand. "Uh, why were you guys ever having that conversation?"

Raphael crossed his arms and turned away.

"I do not recall," Splinter said, although he thought he did. "Raphael, can you remind me?"

"It - It was Donatello, okay?" Raphael spun and pointed an accusing finger at Splinter. "You said he didn't have any brothers and wasn't welcome here if he couldn't behave. Now I find out there's a guy who's _our_ brother and didn't have a name and acts a lot like Donnie." He gripped the sides of his head. "Master Splinter, what's going on? Why have I been haunted my whole life by my brother who ain't dead?"

"You have always been a far more sensitive child than you allow others to see," Splinter said, though he knew it was far from being a complete or satisfying answer. "But what do you mean, your whole life?"

"Yeah, Raph," said Michelangelo. "I thought you made him up when we were three and stopped playing with your imaginary friend when we were about five."

Raphael was shaking his head even as Michelangelo spoke. "He was always there, he never left, and -" He curled in on himself, his massive bulk seeming to shrink. "- I don't think he's imaginary."

"Is Donatello with us now?" Splinter asked gently.

Raphael shut his eyes, as though doing so would protect him from the question. But as the silence stretched out, he slowly slid an arm along it to point towards a corner of the room. "He's right there."

"And what does he have to say?" Splinter prompted, a question he had not been interested in for many years.

"He don't talk much anymore," Raphael said, withdrawing his arm back into his defensive huddle. "Just … hangs around."

"And -"

"I don't know," Raphael said, without even waiting to hear the question. "I - I gotta get some air."

"I'll keep an eye on him," Michelangelo said, rolling to his feet as Raphael's heels disappeared out the door. "But mega weird, right?"

"Come with me," Splinter said to Leonardo, as Michelangelo followed Raphael out into the sewers. "I, too, need some air."

* * *

The air at their former home was thick and dusty, things seemingly still not having settled after the collapse caused by the Mousers.

"What are we doing here?' Leonardo asked.

"There is an item I wish to retrieve," Splinter said, and as he scurried lightly over the broken and fallen stonework, his son followed with the patient strength of a turtle.

"I don't think you did the wrong thing," Leonardo said, as he sat atop a rubble heap, while his father burrowed into a precariously-balanced tunnel that Leonardo's shell would not permit him to enter. "But you should have told us."

"And what would you have done with this knowledge?" Splinter asked. He sniffed the air, and carefully pawed in the dust.

"I don't know," Leonardo admitted. And then: "What is it?"

Splinter emerged from the tunnel with two shards of curved glass, dirty and smudged, but miraculously no more broken than the day he had first brought them home.

"Something I have kept for many years," he said. "Now I know why."


	28. Chapter 28

"Mom, what's Splinter's phone number?"

"What?" Emma called back. She had never particularly appreciated David yelling questions at her from another room.

David stuck his head into the kitchen. "What's Splinter's phone number?"

Emma put down the bottle of dashi, an ingredient she had never had in the house before. "I don't know, why?"

"Well, what's his email address?"

Giving up on the strange recipe, Emma pushed away the still-empty mixing bowl and turned to face her son. "I don't know if he has one."

David ran a hand down his face. "Mom, you're killing me. How do you old people communicate with each other?"

"He just shows up," Emma said.

"Oh my god, it's like you're living in 1984."

"1984 was a good year!" Emma yelled after David's retreating back. "Why do you want to talk to him anyway?" she murmured at the unfamiliar bottles of sake and mirin. "I thought you hated him."

The good news was that following the meeting with Splinter and his sons a few nights ago, David had recovered his sweet temperament and generally calm outlook on life. He hadn't exactly forgiven Emma for what he had found in the medical files, but they seemed to have an unspoken agreement to proceed as though she were a tolerably decent mother whose only child did not hate her guts. Small victories, she supposed.

She was about to go off on a historical train of thought on why 1984 had been such a great year, when she was interrupted by another shouted question from the living room.

"Hey, anybody home?"

Now, that didn't make sense, and also it didn't sound like David.

"Mom, they're here!" _That_ was David. "They came back!"

"Of course we came back," said Michelangelo, as Emma stepped out of the kitchen to find Splinter and his family _just showing up_ , as though climbing through people's second-story windows unannounced was no big deal. "And we brought you some presents."

Without further preamble, Mikey pressed a jar full of yellowy-brown glop into David's hand. "I don't really know how diabetes works and I definitely don't know what fiberdipsio-whatever is, but this stuff is good for everything. Just eat a spoonful every morning."

The excitement seemed to drain out of David as he stood there holding the strange gift. "Um, thanks," he said uncertainly.

Mike hopped back, and Leonardo stepped forward to present David with a long strip of lavender fabric, two holes neatly punched out of the middle. "I hope you like purple," he said. "It was the only color left."

"Thank you…?" David said, even more nonplussed, as Leonardo gave him the fabric two-handed.

Splinter stepped forward next, and David pushed the first two gifts at Emma in order to accept the third. "I hope this will help you find the answers you seek," Splinter said, as he handed David two pieces of sharply broken glass.

It took David only a fraction of a second to solve the puzzle and reassemble the two pieces.

"TCRI," he read, the letters printed in a strange font on the thick glass. "What does that stand for?"

Michelangelo, hovering nearby, grinned and struck a ridiculous pose. "Turtle Children R Invincible!"

Leonardo ignored Mike's shenanigans. "Treat Carefully; Results Interesting."

"The Contents Raise Intelligence," Splinter suggested.

"This Crap Ruins Iverything," muttered Raphael, who had been leaning against the wall next to the window, saying nothing.

"Some of you need spelling lessons," Emma said, "but I have to give points for creativity."

"Seriously, what does it stand for?" David asked. "What is this?"

Splinter shook his head. "We do not know. It is the canister that contained the substance that changed the five of us to what we are today, but we can tell you nothing of its origins."

David looked at the canister again, and a slow smile spread over his face. "Thank you," he said, and this time it was sincere.

Splinter nodded, and when his gaze flickered towards Emma, she nodded back, unnoticed by any of the boys.

"Do you want to join us for dinner?" David asked. "We're eating late. Mom's trying to figure out how to make donburi."

"I think we're having frozen pizza," Emma said. "I don't understand this recipe."

"No problem," said Michelangelo, already bouncing towards the kitchen. "I'll take care of it." In an instant he disappeared, and immediately crashing noises began emanating from where he had gone.

Emma lifted a finger towards the kitchen doorway. "Should I -"

Splinter shrugged, a poised and elegant movement, like everything else he did. "I do."

"Where's the meat?" Mike called from the other room. Perhaps it ran in the family.

"I don't eat meat," David called back. "I'm vegetarian."

Raphael's eyes went wide, and he stood up off the wall. "What? Why? Is it because you're sick?"

"No, it's because I like animals," David said, as though this were a very strange question.

"It's okay," Leonardo said, stepping in front of Raphael, who looked like he wanted to argue the point. "Mikey, just make tamagodon."

"Already on it!" Mike shouted back.

Emma was a little nervous about what was happening in her kitchen, but she was hardly going to complain about anyone cooking dinner for her. David went to store the broken canister safely in his room, Leonardo and Raphael helped put out the extra chairs Emma often used for entertaining guests, and the conversation gradually coalesced around the smell of dinner.

"I'm having a session later this week," David said, as they all sat down to eat. "I really want you guys to come."

The boys exchanged mystified looks. "A training session?" asked Leonardo, though as he said it he was looking at the silverware, which he seemed to find similarly confusing.

"No, with my team," David said.

Another round of uncomprehending glances. "Football team?" Raphael guessed, though he seemed to doubt this was anywhere close to the correct answer.

David smiled sideways. "You guys are funny. My medical team. You know, the people who keep me from dying."

The boys didn't seem to know what to say to this.

"Why would you like your brothers to join you for this, David?" Splinter asked.

Emma tensed a little at the family terminology, but David either accepted or ignored it. "If the doctors see you too, it could really help them cure me."

"So you won't be sick anymore?" Mike asked.

David tilted his head and smiled serenely. "Yes."

"If you need our help, we'll be there," said Leonardo.

"It's Friday at 10:00," David said.

"Three days from now, mid-morning," said Emma, remembering Splinter's detachment from the world of calendars and clocks.

He inclined his head, a wordless gesture of thanks.

" _Itadakimasu_ ," the boys said, and "Eat a docky moss," David echoed, and they ate.

It was delicious.

* * *

On good days - and today had been a good day - David didn't need any help with the intricacies of his bedtime routine. But Emma leaned on his doorframe anyway, watching as he sat on the bed, running the strip of fabric Leonardo had given him through his fingers.

"What is that?" Emma asked.

"It's -" David made a gesture across his eyes. "They wear those domino masks, and they wanted me to have one too. I don't know why." He studied the fabric a moment longer, then looked up. "What did they mean, purple was the only color left?"

"I don't know," Emma said. "You hate purple."

David nodded and hummed his agreement. But he hung the mask over his IV pole before going to bed.


	29. Chapter 29

Emma's clinic was closed on Fridays, open Saturdays - a system that was more convenient for her clients, as well as making it easier for the team of specialists who took care of David to fit visits into their own work schedules.

Early rising, however, was for every day, and after spending a few minutes watching the sun come up, Emma went back inside to take care of the inpatients and catch up on some paperwork. She had plenty of time before Ron arrived. He wasn't much for early rising himself - and, to be fair, he had to come over the bridges from Connecticut.

He was more or less punctual, though, and at a few minutes after 10:00 the front doorbell buzzed. Emma got up to let him in.

"Hi, Ron."

"Hi, Emma." He came inside, sparing only a quick glance for the familiar waiting room. "David said he had something interesting to show me. What's going on?"

"I think you had better come and see," Emma said, and she led him back into the exam room.

The small, spotless space was crammed with seriously deformed humans, and as the usually-unflappable Ron looked around at them, his jaw slowly fell open.

"Well, David," he said. "It seems the number of known cases of your syndrome has increased by 300%."

"Sort of," David said. "They have a different presentation."

"Obviously." Ron's gaze lingered on the boys, then moved to Splinter. "And one _quite_ different."

"Ron," said David, "these are my brothers and my father."

The other night, over donburi - which Michelangelo had insisted on serving in bowls - Emma had explained about Ron, and about the other colleagues they had gradually recruited to deal with David's various medical crises, and to keep him as healthy as possible in between. Though she had assured Splinter and the boys that everyone on David's team was a consummate expert and exceedingly discreet, the family had been pretty uncomfortable about the whole thing, and they didn't seem any more at ease to be meeting Ron in person. They did, however, look quite pleased at how David had introduced them.

"Also," David went on, "I brought you this."

"All right," Ron said, as he took the two halves of the broken TCRI canister. "I have to admit I'm not finding this as immediately fascinating. What am I looking at?"

"They say that I was born - or hatched, I guess - as an ordinary turtle," David said, "and that whatever was in this container changed me to how I am now."

"Really." Ron studied the canister with much greater interest, before setting it on the counter. "Well, this certainly is a breakthrough, isn't it? Let's get started." He raised his hands as though they were all about to do something extremely exciting. "Blood draws for everyone!"

"What?" Mike yelped.

"Oh, relax," said David. "It's no big deal. Ron has a whole swimming pool full of my blood in Connecticut."

"That is a slanderous lie," Ron said, even as he pulled open a drawer and began preparing a syringe. "I don't have a swimming pool full of anything, in Connecticut or elsewhere." He reached back to pat the exam table. "Who wants to go first?"

The boys all looked uncertainly at the gleaming metal surface.

"This will help you?" Leonardo asked, his gaze sliding to David, even as it was clear he wasn't letting the syringe out of his sight.

"Absolutely," David said.

Leonardo set his jaw. "Then I'll do it."

"If Leo's gonna do it, so'm I," said Raphael.

"If Leo and Raph are gonna do it, I don't really need to, right?" said Michelangelo.

"Michelangelo," Splinter said.

"Fiiiiine."

The boys lined up, and with remarkable fortitude for teenagers obviously not accustomed to doctors and needles, they let Ron puncture their veins and withdraw samples.

"And you, sir?" Ron asked, raising a brow at Splinter.

"Certainly," Splinter replied, and rolling up the sleeve of his robe, he permitted Ron to shave a small patch of his arm in order to locate a vein.

"So, how did this happen?" Ron asked, as he packed the samples carefully into a tray. "Emma, did you know about this?"

"Not until a few weeks ago," Emma said, and she sensed something ease in David at the confirmation that Ron had known no more about this than he had.

"Well, where did you all come from?" Ron asked. "Where have you _been_?" He flexed his hands. "Can I do a full exam?"

"We will offer anything you need," Splinter said.

Emma leaned back against the wall for what was obviously going to be a long session, but David touched her elbow. "Mom, can we have some privacy?"

"Oh." She glanced around the room; no one was exactly clamoring for her to stay. "Of course."

She went upstairs and tried to focus on a book.

* * *

The next few weeks were a blur of her co-parent and stepchildren - as Emma had begun to think of Splinter and the boys - coming and going. David pretended to take Michelangelo's strange medicine, gradually emptying the jar's contents down the sink. His health stayed about the same as always.

There were bills to pay and patients to see and homeschooling lessons to plan. September came, and Terri had only one child to send off to class. Sharon had graduated college in the spring and landed a job in investment banking on Wall Street.

"When do I get to meet David's brothers?" Terri kept asking.

"I don't know," Emma said.

And then, one day, David called her from the back hallway while she was examining a pregnant dog.

"Mom," he said, keeping himself carefully out of sight behind the doorframe. "Mom, you have to come _right now_."

"Excuse me," Emma said to the unimpressed client. "My son. I'll be right back."

"What is it?" she asked David, herding him back from the doorway with quick steps.

He pressed the phone into her hands. "It's Ron."

She lifted the phone to her ear. "Ron, what's going on?"

"Emma, you won't believe what we've found," came the familiar voice of her friend. "I'm coming down right away. I think we have a cure for David."


End file.
